


Do No Harm

by SandfireKat



Category: The Good Doctor (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Family, Friendship, Gore, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-04-16 05:09:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 51,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14157465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandfireKat/pseuds/SandfireKat
Summary: Requested by anonymous, eleoopy, and argent-watcher: What do you think about an episode where there’s a bus crash (the one Shaun rides) and he helps people/is hurt ?Shaun is a doctor. He heals the sick and injured, and he takes care of people that need his help. He made this vow in full, understanding the responsibility he was taking on. So, when the bus swerved, when it crashed and flipped, it came as second nature to him. Despite his pain, and despite his injuries, he still pushed himself to do as much as he could for those around him. And he did. Without hesitation, he tried to save as many people as possible. And in doing do, he wasn't able to save himself.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a result of requests made to me on my tumblr blog thegooddoctorheacanons. If you like it, I'd love to hear your feedback, and I'd really appreciate you checking out of the other shorter snippets of writing I have on there! <3  
> I was very super excited to write this, and I did as much research as I possibly could to be able to pull it off. But I am always the first to say that there could be problems in my story (though I would hope and pray not too noticeable) so if there is something amiss I sure would appreciate being able to fix it!  
> This story is going to have multiple chapters, I'm just not sure how many at the moment. Hopefully you all like it, I spent quite a lot of time on it trying to make it decent, haha!  
> I always try and edit my stories with a fine-toothed comb, but if some glaring typos have slipped through, I would very much appreciate being able to fix those as well! Thank you for reading, and I hope to hear your guys' feedback! <3

The bus was always crowded.

Not always. Usually. That's a better word.

Typically.

Generally.

Regularly.

Frequently.

It was crowded tonight. Currently, Shaun was standing, just because there weren't any seats open to take. He didn't mind; he was more concerned about the fact that there were so many people travelling home, it was difficult to stand in a position which left him free of touching anyone else. He didn't want to brush shoulders with anyone, or stumble back into them at a particularly sharp turn. It had been pouring down rain by the time the bus had come, and everyone around him was just as soaked as he was. He already hated being wet— he didn't want to get even more so, if he could help it.

After some shifting around and adjusting, he'd found a way to stand that gave him as much personal space as he was going to get. He had to find a way to be satisfied with the meager offering. The ride home wasn't that long, anyway. It was only twenty-three minutes, if the driver followed the speed limit, and waited for the adequate amount of time at each stop.

Standing near one of the poles just in case needed to reach out for the stability, Shaun was standing with his arms pulled up close to his chest. Maybe it was a means of conserving that personal space, or maybe it was just his effort to stay warm. It had been a colder day in general, by California standards. He'd gotten too used to the mild weather— much nicer than the freezing temperatures Wyoming could drop to. So, even on days that had to be at sixty or sixty-five, he was still bundling up in his jacket and hunkering down against the wind. Today, thanks to the rain, it felt about fifteen degrees below that. Every so often, he would shiver, and lock his jaw back to keep his teeth from chattering. The heating on the bus wasn't really doing much.

He was wearing his headphones. It was a good distraction from the crowd of people. And it was a good way to forget the day he'd had at work. He loved work; he really did. It was his favorite thing. But even he was exhausted and worn after this particular twenty-hour shift. They'd lost an elderly man in the ER to a cardiac arrest early on; despite their attempts to revive him, it was all to no avail. A young woman had come in sick and proceeded to vomit all over Doctor Park, which really painted him in a bad mood for the rest of the day. Melendez had been grumpier than normal, too, which was really saying something. Jared had gotten stuck with scutwork after hour fifteen, which he was very clearly not a fan of, and from hours eighteen to twenty, Claire and Morgan were bickering back and forth with Shaun trapped in the middle.

Shaun loved work. But the second the clock hit nine, he was practically sprinting out the door.

So, he was welcome to the ability to stop now, and just listen to music. He wasn't sure what was playing; Lea had sent him a new playlist just the other day and he was still working his way down the line. But the song was soft and relaxing, and it was just what he needed after such an arduous day. He could barely stay awake— on top of the draining work day, he hadn't slept well the night before. His eyes were heavy and every so often they would threaten to close, and stay that way. He had to pry them back open and shake himself what felt like every other minute. It was the third time he had to snap back into reality that he checked the clock to see how close he was to home. He was likely to stumble straight for his bed and just collapse.

He almost groaned at the time that shone back at him. There was still twelve more minutes to go. He needed another distraction. Something to keep him from falling asleep right then and there. His eyes started to flicker through the people around him. It wasn't the best distraction, because really Shaun would rather be alone, and he didn't need the reminder that he wasn't. But it was still better than nothing. And they weren't looking back at him. They were all distracted with their own, well…distractions. It was like each passenger was in their own little world, trying to block everyone else out. That was the one good thing about the bus, in a way. Sometimes, it was the only place people were just as averse to socialization as he was.

Near the front of the bus, a woman was sitting with her child. She looked just as tired as Shaun felt. Some part of him wondered why she was out riding the bus so late. In her arms, she was cradling a small baby that was fast asleep— a fact she and Shaun alike were envious of. She was around two years, Shaun could estimate. She had bright red curls that seemed to stick out in all directions, and she had a bright pink blanket she was clutching in her sleep, pressing up close to her face. It was a tiny piece of fabric— a typical comfort object that every baby had. Shaun knew that oftentimes, the mother would have the blanket with them during the day, or sleep a couple nights with it first, so that when the baby had it, it smelled like them. It was a relatively new practice, but it took advantage of the familial bond of security that already existed between the mother and the child.

The mother began to perk and look up, and Shaun quickly redirected his attention, before she could notice he was staring. Sitting close to the mother and her baby was another young woman with close-cropped pixie-cut hair. She was wearing a baggy sweatshirt and jeans that were torn at the knee. Shaun wondered if the rip was accidental, or if she had purposefully purchased them that way. Her head was ducked down low; she was typing furiously on her phone. She was wearing headphones, too, Shaun realized. He had a feeling he could stare at her hours, and she would be none the wiser, for all the attention she was paying the world.

Just as close to the front, but on the other side of the aisle, a man was half-asleep. His head slackened forward, every so often, and he would yank it back up, just like Shaun was doing. It was an autonomic response of the body, in the attempt to wake you up. The man was holding a coffee in his hand, and thankfully, despite his obvious exhaustion, he wasn't dropping it. Shaun hated coffee. It tasted absolutely horrible, and the suffering it took to choke it down wasn't worth the tiny pick-me-up you were given as a result. However, in this specific situation, it was clear that the man hadn't been given any sort of lift. So the effort would have been completely pointless.

His eyes continued to comb through those that were there. There were quite a few. There was a young man sitting down thumbing through a novel. From where he stood, Shaun couldn't discern the name of it. There was a couple standing nearer to him, each with one hand on the pole for balance, and the other holding tight to the other's, their fingers intertwined. There was an older woman sitting in the back, looking out the window with a contented expression on her face. There was a woman in a crisp business suit was on her phone; for some reason, she looked tense and worried. A man was staring miserably out the window at the pelting rain, like he was mourning something tragic. Another man was working on what looked like a Sudoku puzzle, in the farthest corner of the bus.

There was a trio of teenagers sitting together, laughing over something that was on the phone of the one in the middle. An older gentleman standing in front of them glanced pointedly over his shoulder a few times, obviously irritated. But they either never noticed his look, or they just didn't care. Another woman was standing near Shaun, her elbow locked around the pole she was standing near as she leaned her body against it comfortably. It looked like she had struck up a conversation with another mother, who was standing with her arm draped protectively over her young son's shoulders. The son was playing on a gaming device, looking entirely uninterested in their conversation. Apparently, it was just as mundane as it looked outwardly.

There were other people Shaun couldn't even see. People that were sitting down behind others, or standing in a way that left them blocked from view. If he tried to twist so he could look at them, his snooping would be far too obvious. That, and he just didn't care that much in the first place. Once he swept his stare over the ones that were the closest and the most obvious, Shaun ducked back down his phone. He was a little bit more awake; or at least, for that small gap, he had been able to distract himself enough to clear the numbed fog that had started to cling to him. But now that his attention was back on nothing, he could feel the sneaking tendrils of sleep start to wrap back into place.

He stifled a yawn, and checked the time again. Somehow, what had felt like ages of looking around, had only amounted to two minutes. Still ten more minutes left to go before it was his stop. When you were waiting for it to pass, time slowed and dragged accordingly. It was only when you wanted to hang onto the moments you had that they slipped through your fingers quickly. This did not bode well for bus rides, apparently.

Ten more minutes…ten more minutes, and he would be back in his apartment; he could get dry, and he could sleep. Usually he had a difficult time falling asleep; he thought too much. But now, there was little doubt it would be much easier. His eyes were stinging, he was so tired, and he had to shift back and forth to try and keep his legs from aching too much. He tucked closer to himself and just went back to listening to the music. It really was relaxing…he felt heavier just focusing on it. Like with every second that passed, another pound was added on his shoulders to drag him down.

The song was winding down. Shaun still was too tired to realize he could check its name just by glancing at his phone— he still didn't know what it was. Just like he wouldn't know the name of whatever song was queued up to begin behind it. Or the name of the song that had played before it. All he knew about it were the words; the song was repetitive, but it was soothing, that way. It was like a lullaby, almost, or maybe that was just his exhausted self talking. But still…it was nice to listen to. It made his eyes drift closed again, and it made his head dip forward.

'We played hide-and-seek in waterfalls…we were younger. We were younger.'

He reached up to rub at his eyes and hopefully get them to stay open easier, but the effort was useless. His entire body was beginning to lean more to the side, like it was giving up on standing and just hoping that if it fell, something would be there to catch it.

'We played hide-and-seek in waterfalls…we were younger. We were younger.'

He had a stop to pay attention for. He couldn't miss it again— Lea wasn't here anymore to drive him home. She was gone, back in Hershey, living the way she wanted to. From there, his – admittedly half-awake – brain began to wander sluggishly. He wondered if she was happy, where she was— if she was happier than she had been when she had been here, where he was. He wondered what her new home looked like, and if she got to work on cars like she wanted to. He wondered if she was missing him. He wondered if she kept sending him music just because she thought he wanted her to, or if she did it because she thought of him frequently. He wondered if that was too ambitious a wonder.

'We played hide-and-seek in waterfalls…we were younger. We were younger.'

He started to rouse, feeling himself stumble to the left and nearly run into the woman nearest to him. He pried open his eyes and tried to right himself. He pocketed his phone and turned to look out the window, past some other people. To pay attention instead to the rain coming down and watch its droplets streak along the glass and merge with others. He started to move so that he could reach out and lay his hand against the window, to feel the cold touch and maybe root himself more back into reality. He only had to last a few more minutes, surely? Then he could drag himself up to his apartment, bypassing Lea's with a heavy heart like he did every night and every morning, nowadays. He could lay down and close his eyes and finally give into the exhaustion hanging over him like a thick blanket. He could relax, and forget today.

'Some day, we will foresee obstacles through the blizzard…'

He didn't get that chance.

He didn't get the chance to get off the bus at his designated stop. To flee back into the comfort and dryness of his home and curl up to sleep off a day he had thought was over entirely. He didn't have the chance to try and pull out yet another stop in the effort of distraction; he didn't have the chance to listen to the song get to its end, or even figure out what its name was. He didn't have a chance to reach out for the glass, because as soon as he started to, the world suddenly turned upside down.

The entire bus swerved sharply to the side without any warning at all, causing Shaun and all of the other standing passengers to be thrown wildly off-kilter. He found himself careening into the woman with the business suit and the phone. She staggered backwards and fell, and he was stumbling to right his balance. Even over the music, he could hear shocked and alarmed cries from everyone on board. People's eyes were flying wide, and as the bus swerved again, there sprung into the air a sense of shocked and panicked fear of what was going to happen. There were indistinct yells he couldn't make sense of, which quickly morphed into screams when something collided hard against the side of the bus. He could feel the thud, rather than hear it. It shook his entire skeleton. Shaun scrambled to reach out and hold onto one of the safety poles for balance— the only thing he could think of to do in the split second of panic. His scrambling reach seemed to go in slow motion, but the whole thing was happening in less than five seconds.

In less than five seconds, the bus had swerved clear into the direction of something else, that collided against it with an earsplitting crash. In less than five seconds, glass from the windows exploded inward, showering against him right alongside the pelting rain, slicing painful cuts along his skin. In less than five seconds, the bus flipped over and rolled on its side, the passengers unable to shield or catch themselves as they were thrown like ragdolls. In less than five seconds, Shaun was ripped away from the safety rail before he could grab a firm enough hold, and he was launched into the air. In less than five seconds, the bus was rolling and tumbling, and Shaun's headphones were ripped off his head to expose him fully to the screams of pain and bloodcurdling panic that was now filling the once-quiet space.

In less than five seconds, Shaun was picked off his feet, and his head was slamming back hard against the roof.

In less than five seconds, all he could see was black.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

"Shaun! Shaun! Shaun, look! Shaun!" He was staring down at the grass between his feet. The call caught his attention, but he didn't quite pick his head up. His eyes started to flicker towards the voice, but they stopped before they could get all the way there. Uncertainly, he ended up just staring straight ahead, at the other trees, and the rest of the forest. The person that had called to him was still out of viewpoint. But that didn't matter, because practically as soon as he heard the last cry of his name, suddenly they were all he could see.

Steve swung down to meet him, literally. He practically smacked into him and knocked him clean off his feet. Shaun stiffened and jerked backwards in shock— an automatic reaction that turned out to be a very smart move. Had he not jumped back to be flush against the tree trunk, his little brother's head likely would have slammed right into his, and the two of them would have had very nice – matching – concussions. With Shaun's jump, the contract was reduced to a tiny 'boop' of their noses. When Steve swung backwards, there was a huge grin on his face— a grin that looked more like a frown, from where Shaun was standing.

Steve was hanging upside down from the lowest branch of the tree. His legs were hooked around the limb, but his hands were still clamped tightly around it, just in case he slipped. Now that they were, technically, eye-level, Shaun was forced to look at him— he did so warily. The expression on his face made Steve giggle. He nearly lost his grip on the branch and had to right himself. He ignored Shaun's faint murmur of protest, at the near-loss. He just smirked and tilted his head to the side. "Come on, Shaun!" he whined, giggles edging his words. "Get up here with me!"

Shaun ducked away with a quickly-growing frown. "No," he mumbled. "I would fall."

Steve scoffed, rolling his eyes. He started to swing back and forth, which didn't help Shaun's anxiety at all. He looked at his younger brother with an almost parental look of disapproval. It only made him swing more. Shaun should have known— Steve usually had a habit of going against direct authority. "You have got to be kidding me. You wouldn't fall!" he objected blandly. "You would be perfectly fine! Get up here with me! And we can climb the whole thing, together!" He softened and added neatly: "You'll never know whether or not you can do something until you do it, Shaun." Though he added for good measure: "Duh."

"You're going to fall…" Shaun objected, tensing up when Steve kept swinging.

"I'm not going to fall either!" Steve blustered, with yet another roll of his eyes. He was getting better at doing that— usually he only did it to their dad, though. Usually, he would roll his eyes at him and then turn to shoot a smirk in Shaun's direction, which would always bring a tiny grin to his face. He wasn't sure he liked being on the other end of it. "I've got too much skill for that. Obviously. Look!" Shaun wilted and started to object again when his brother made a big deal out of letting go of the branch and swinging back out. He let his arms dangle down, and once again he got their noses to bump.

Shaun ducked down and rubbed his nose. It made Steve giggle again. He was swinging his arms loosely like pendulums, and rocking back and forth. He really was going to fall, and then what were they going to do? Shaun straightened and shook his head. Steve deflated in disappointment. "Come onnn," he cried, jutting out his lower lip in a pout. "Climb with me, Shaun! We can get all the way up there!" He tried to point up to the towards the top of the tree, looming high above them, but it was a little too awkward to, and he gave up after trying to twist and wriggle around three separate ways. With a frustrated huff, he relaxed again, and he looked at Shaun more carefully now. "Come on; I promise you won't fall. And anyway— why would you!? You've gotta have more faith in yourself, Shaun."

"I'm not strong," Shaun reasoned. He faced his brother fully now, searching his face. Steve didn't seem very convinced. Or maybe he did. It was hard to tell when he was hanging upside down. His eyes flickered up to where Steve's legs were hooked around the branch. He deflated. "I'm not as strong as you," he said. "I would fall, and I would get hurt. I don't want to." There was a lengthy pause where the two brothers just stared at one another, Steve upside-down, and Shaun right-side-up. Neither of them said anything for a long stretch. Eventually, feeling like there had to be something to break the silence, Shaun reiterated: "I'm not strong enough."

"Of course you are," Steve supplied readily. He melted, and smiled. "You're the strongest person I know, Shaun. Climbing this tree is nothing. And besides!" He swung forward more, and before Shaun could duck away, he reached out to ruffle his hair quickly before he swung back. Against himself, a smile wriggled its way over Shaun's face, that familiar warmth kindling itself in his chest as he straightened to watch his brother swing back with an even wider beam. "I can help you!" Steve declared with a flourish. "And I'd never let you fall."

Shaun smiled. He didn't move, or take him up on the offer. He just stayed still, his hands clasped in front of him as he watched Steve swing. His brother frowned a bit, somehow finding a way to tilt his head to the side. "C'mon!" he chirped. "I know you can do it! Let me help you!" Still, Shaun remained a statue. Steve started to move, as if to reach out and grab his hands. "All you need is a little—"

He couldn't finish the proposal. His words were cut off with a harsh, sucking inhale. His eyes flew wide for the split second it took him to realize that his legs were slipping from where they were locked around the branch. But that split second was all the time he had before he was falling, plunging towards the ground with a startled look frozen across his features. Shaun stiffened, and his eyes widened too. But he found he couldn't move. He couldn't reach out and grab him, or try and cushion his fall like he wanted to. All he could do was watch and stare uselessly.

And the fall was much larger than it really was. And the forest suddenly didn't feel as green and as open as it had before. And suddenly Shaun wasn't feeling the plush grass underneath his feet— he was feeling hard steel. He was standing much higher, as Steve fell off the train, in that warehouse that was too dim and smelled too much like burning food. Suddenly Shaun was watching him die, and again, he could do nothing at all against it. All he could do was stay rigid where he was, terror and grief and regret and remorse making a vomit-inducing emotion bubble at the back of his throat.

But before it could make its way forward, before Steve could hit the ground, before Shaun was forced to hear that sickening thud all over again as if he didn't hear it constantly running through the back of his mind already…

Shaun's eyes opened with a large amount of difficulty. Had the situation been anything different, a dream like that would have had him spasming awake in a rush of terror and panic. He'd had them before, and every time, he was shooting straight up in his bed, his heart ramming against his ribcage and his lungs already gasping for air. But now it was like he had to claw his way to the surface of everything. Like he'd been thirty feet underwater, and all he could do was scramble as up as fast as he could for oxygen. Everything came back to him slowly, in tiny little increments.

The first thing he felt, was the metal underneath him. Oddly enough, it was the first sensation to click. It was hard and uncomfortable. He felt the rain, next, and the water that was sticking to his clothes and making them freezing cold against his skin. Those tinier sensations were first to leak back into his consciousness. Muted at first, but with every passing second getting more and more apparent until his brain could kick into gear and make sense of them. And then, once those minimal things were able to leak back into his awareness, the pain was able to hit him like a ton of bricks.

The rush of agony took his breath away, but at the same time, Shaun was unable to do anything but choke softly underneath his breath. His muscles locked up in visceral reaction, which only made it all the worse. He was pinned underneath the weight of his pain. He couldn't move, could hardly breathe. His mind was groggy, and every thought took far too long to connect. But, laying frozen on his side, Shaun slowly began to wake up and make logical connections to his pain. His head was pounding and throbbing; the slightest twist of his neck caused it to spin, and his stomach to tie into tight knots. Breathing in hitched, uneven rasps, Shaun's eyes slowly flickered down to see that his jacket was ripped, and he was bleeding. A lot. There were things buried deep into his skin among other cuts and slices…things that looked like he should know what they were, but for some reason he couldn't find the name. He moved his fingers, to see whether or not he still could. They twitched with life, but his skin immediately pulled in a fresh wave of white-hot pain that made him gag and duck his head back down to the ground.

It took nearly four whole seconds for his foggy mind to make the connection. Glass. It was everywhere. All over the bus, and all over him. Larger shards had managed to stab down and rooted themselves into place— the name finally came to him, but there was no relief in the feat whatsoever.

His leg screeched with the same kind of excruciating pain as was centered in his arm. He tried to move it but couldn't. He tried to turn to assess the damage, but the very instant he began to twist, he was choking in agony. His side felt like someone was sticking knives down in between his ribs. And once again, pain shot clear through the back of his head and down his spine at the tiniest of motions. He couldn't turn and look down at himself, and he abandoned the effort immediately, going limp again as he fell back down.

For what felt like forever, he was stuck like that, unable to do anything but lay there and whimper, in both pain and mounting panic. Even his breathing was punctured and weak, around the pressure that his injuries were inflicting. He tried to rationalize, and sort through what was happening, but his mind was too slow and too weighted down. Fear was also making his already-warped mind slower and more distracted. The two things were working against him on all odds, keeping him from doing much of anything but choke and hiss for what felt years.

But it truly couldn't have been more than a few seconds before he was able to get himself gathered enough to tear his mind away from himself. He couldn't move his head, but his eyes did force themselves open again, and flicker upwards. Nausea was quickly rising to turn his stomach, but he tried to best to ignore it. He needed to see what was happening. He needed to make sense of his surroundings. As best he could. His vision shook and trembled like he was watching everything play out on the surface of a puddle. Shapes and colors blurred into an incoherent mess. Anything he heard sounded distant, and far away. None of these realizations were helping keep him from falling into panic. But he did his best anyway.

He slowly pieced together that the bus was on its side. Rain was getting in because the windows, now overhead, were shattered, and therefore offered no protection whatsoever. He was lying in the divot where the advertisements usually circled around in a border on the roof. The intersection that was usually between the wall and the ceiling, was now suddenly the floor. He was right above the shattered windows, which probably explained the glass that was everywhere around him. The rest of the bus was hardly even able to be made sense of. Chairs were snapped off and thrown wildly this way and that. Parts of the walls had caved in, to leave sharp metal protruding towards everyone inside. Some of the safety rails had broken off, and some still managed to stay in one piece, somehow.

There were a lot of people still unmoving. Unconscious…or otherwise, they were entirely still. Some people, who could, were picking themselves up. The couple from before, who'd been holding one another's hands, were among that group. The man who had been staring mournfully out the window was reaching down to help someone else to their feet. There was the sound of talking, but Shaun couldn't make sense of any of the words. It was all garbled and quiet, to him. His eyes dragged slowly around for a few sparse seconds, before they caught on something nearer to him, and he stopped short.

Less than seven inches from where lay, was the business woman that had been talking anxiously on her phone. Her eyes were closed; sliced across her forehead was a deep gasp that was bleeding profuse, near-black blood. She didn't react to the talking, or the sounds of shifting movement. Shaun tried to look at her chest, and see whether or not she was breathing. But he was too far away. He couldn't see that well.

He lay there for a few more moments. He couldn't move; he was paralyzed under the weight of his injuries. He was blank, and devoid of thought. It was difficult to force out simple common sense, or logical thought at all. His other arm didn't hurt nearly as much, and he dragged it closer to himself, reaching up and gingerly touching the back of his head. Immediately, his vision fuzzed out in white, and a tiny sob worked its way out through clenched teeth. When his arm dropped lifelessly, and he looked at his hand, he saw that it was dyed red with blood. The rain that was managing to get in helped smear it some. But he still was able to recognize it.

Once Shaun's arm fell with a thud, his eyes refocused slowly on the woman in front of him. She was still unresponsive. They fluttered closed, against his will, and immediately, he tried to force them back open. He struggled to get back— to think rationally about himself and his injuries. His head…he could have a— he needed to— it was dangerous to— His mind couldn't finish a coherent thought. He realized, like he was realizing everything far later than he should be, that he was crying. He didn't have enough air in his lungs to sob, or scream. The pain was certainly enough to elicit either. But maybe a part of the reason for his silence also had to do with the terror and shock that was currently locking him in this state of half-awareness.

It was this shock that caused the thought he should have had from the instant he woke up to only occur to him now. It leaked back in increments, connecting slowly, until he could recognize what it meant as a whole.

He forced his arm into motion again. The simple task was near impossible. But still, he clamped down on the torture the simple movement conjured. He needed his phone. He didn't know where his backpack was. He didn't know where his headphones were, either. Both of them must have been ripped away somewhere in the impact. But he'd put his phone into his pocket— he remembered that much, at least. He had to shift to reach back, and he gagged again at the agony that overwhelmed him in response. His side, his leg, his head, all severe and all demanding that he stop moving.

His fingers were numb with pain by the time he wormed them into his jeans, but he managed to force them around his phone anyway. It was a miracle it hadn't fallen out somewhere in the crash. He managed to drag it out and pull it back in front of him. The screen was completely shattered. He pressed the home button, finding the effort just to turn the phone on excruciating. His heart stopped when it actually complied. He swallowed hard and tried to sit up more. He was shaking like a leaf, and nearly dropped it twice. But he managed to go to calls, and click blindly at the most recent one, knowing it would be who he needed.

He collapsed back when he put it up to his ear, finding the effort to sit too much right now. And not entirely worth it, either. He was unthinking with the movement, and again, he was swamped with a wave of sickness as his head hit back against the metal and spun like a top. It felt like the bus was falling away underneath him, and his vision went blank as waves of pain rolled from his eyes to his neck. Bile rose up in the back of his throat, and he was so close to vomiting that he almost didn't notice when the line picked up.

"Hello?" And there was Glassman's voice, and it was apparently the final thing that Shaun needed to get himself back into reality fully. To understand what had happened, and where he was, and what might transpire. With that simple greeting, it all hit Shaun at once, and he found that his lungs began to kick into high gear and do the opposite of what they had been up until this point— they began to draw in more air as he started to shallowly hyperventilate. The pain in his side built tenfold as he did, but that just made him breathe harder. He didn't reply at first. His eyes went wider, rounding out with fright as he stared unseeingly at the mess around him. Glassman repeated himself, seeming confused. "Hello? Shaun? Are you there?"

"M—" Shaun's lips shook, as he fought to get something out. But pain and shock, the latter building now, were still compressing his trachea. Along with the agony that was burning through him like fire, fear was coursing there as well. They mingled together and somehow ripped the ability of speech from him. He was breathing fast, but he was barely breathing at all. Forming words was like trying to create a sandcastle out of water. "Th—" He couldn't get anything out. He was too dizzy; the weight on his chest was too great. It was all too choked to get much farther than what he could push. He could only flinch, his side ripping again. Some part of his mind was able to resurface just enough to declare rather unhelpfully: 'Broken rib. Maybe two. Possibly three.' "The bus—" he finally managed to spit out.

And though it wasn't much at all, it was more than enough for Glassman. Immediately, the man's voice changed. It grew flatter, and flooded with fear and concern. Shaun could barely hear over the rain. If he was in the right state of mind, he would have wondered how Glassman could possibly have heard him in the first place, given how his voice was nothing more than a forced rasp. "What do you mean?" Glassman demanded. Shaun couldn't reply; he closed his eyes against another wave of nausea. Another whimper worked its way out of him, and somehow Glassman heard that, too. "Shaun, where are you?" he pressed, and his voice was getting louder. Easier to hear, on one hand, but on the other, it only made Shaun breathe even faster. The stabbing sensation in his side was getting harsher and harsher; his vision was beginning to spot over in black.

When he stayed silent, with only his hitched breathing as a response, Glassman pushed even more. His voice was becoming strained, on the other end. "Shaun, where are you!?" He was yelling now. Like he was angry with him. Shaun blinked slowly— his arm was going numb, the longer he was forced to hold it up. His fingers were losing their grip. The phone would slide out of his hand. All these things he knew, and yet he couldn't get his body to listen and right itself. "What happened on the bus, Shaun?" Glassman was pressing. "Are you okay!?"

"Cr—" Shaun gagged, and had to choke back a swallow before he could force it out properly. "Crash," he croaked. And when the word passed his lips, he cringed. His next ones came out clearer, but only because his voice tightened with panic and fear. "It crashed, I—" He clamped down on whatever he was about to say. Speaking caused his side to split open again, and he went into a tiny spasm of pain. He cried out underneath his breath, heaving for air that couldn't satisfy his lungs. His eyes closed, and for a moment, the blackness that was ringing his vision swamped forward, to shut down over him all again.

He lost consciousness for a tiny burst.

There was no telling how long it actually lasted. But when he came back to, his phone was still against his ear— it only stayed there by balance, considering Shaun's hand had gone completely lax with the rest of his body. Glassman was shouting, when Shaun resurfaced. His voice was choked, and he sounded as scared as Shaun was. "Shaun!? Shaun!" He tried to reply, and tell him he was still there, but he couldn't get enough air to. "Are you there!? Shaun!?"

"I—" was all he got out.

Glassman grabbed hold of this tiny syllable at once, though, as means of knowing he was at least still breathing. For now. His own voice hitched when he continued, and although he was attempting to be reassuring, the pure fear and terror in his voice was more than noticeable. "Shaun, I'll be right there, I'll— I'll find you, I'll— just— stay on the phone with me, Shaun, can you do that?" he pleaded. "Can you talk to me? You have to— keep talking, Shaun, keep talking. Tell me where you are— tell what the last stop was. What was the last stop you remember?"

Shaun's eyes dragged themselves over to the woman in front of him. He blinked slowly, groggily, staring at her with a look that was half-vacant. His hand was getting looser. "Shaun, can you stay on the phone with me?" Shaun didn't respond. He couldn't. Glassman kept on despite the silence. The more he talked, the more congested his voice sounded. Like he was crying. Though Shaun wasn't an expert on that. Never had been. "Talk to me, Shaun; say something! Say something so I know you're okay." He was begging, now. His voice was getting more and more choked the longer Shaun's silence stretched.

A harsh shiver lanced up Shaun's spine, and as his body went into the violent twitch, his phone finally fell. It hit the ground with a thud. He scrambled, having to concentrate far too much to get his arm to coordinate outward, and for fingers to wrap around the device again. When they did, and he managed to turn the phone back around, the broken screen was dark. He only held it for about a second before it slipped again; this time, he didn't even try to pick it up again. He just reached out to press down on the home button. But the screen didn't change. It wouldn't turn on. Against the nausea choking him and blurring his thoughts, Shaun had to force two and two together. Water…the rain— and the screen, it was— no use. Pointless.

Dead.

It was dead.

As the word occurred, his eyes pulled back to the woman. She hadn't moved this entire time. He blinked slowly, feeling like his eyelids weighed twenty pounds each. Thoughts were clouded and hard to get ahold of. They leaked through his fingers like sand. He wasn't used to it. But eventually, after a few more seconds that felt more like mini eternities, he started to move. Immediately, he choked and cried out when unimaginable pain stabbed through every inch of him. The slightest of shifts made his leg screech, and as he pushed his body up with his good arm, his other one joined in the screaming as it lifted off the ground too. Some rational part of himself, that was trying to resurface from the haze of unintelligible agony, knew he shouldn't. He was hurt, and he would only get more so if he forced himself into motion. Pain was the body's way of letting you know that you had to stop what you were doing, before it was too late. It was a stoplight to freeze you in your tracks before damage was done that could not be reversed.

He knew that. He was a doctor.

But he also didn't stop.

He couldn't move his leg, and his right arm was still marred with glass and lacerations. It was already bleeding; the more he moved it, the more profuse the blood loss would become. So, he was forced to use his left arm solely. He dug his fingers down as much as he could against the metal, and he started to drag his body towards the unmoving woman's. Not a second after he started, he had to duck his head and choke down against the pain that was inflicted. Broken glass was everywhere, especially in this specific part of the bus. To get to her, even though she was relatively close, he had to pull himself over where the windows had been before. He cried out thickly as he felt little needles of pain catch him on the way. He was trying his best to avoid the biggest piles, and yet that threatening blackness hadn't left; it was still shadowing his vision and making his mind slow. And it was much too difficult to raise his head up and force it to stay there. He was going blind, mostly.

Once he got close enough to her, pulling himself out of the divot and pushing along with his good leg when he could, Shaun collapsed again, with a noise that was halfway between a heavy exhale, and a constricted sob. It took him a moment to even out his breathing, which had quickened with both pain and exertion. He dragged his head back up, ignoring the way the world seemed to shake as he did, and reached out with his uninjured arm, to place two fingers against her neck. He grimaced and dropped to the floor again, his eyes fluttering closed against his will. But he breathed in hard and deep, and he tried to stay aware enough to see whether or not he could feel a pulse. He tried to see whether or not she was still alive— if there was anything he could do for her.

At first, he feared that he had lost consciousness a third time, when he felt nothing. But, stomping down the sick feeling rising in his gut, he pried his eyes open again and looked back to her. He was still awake. The reason he couldn't feel her pulse wasn't because he was losing grip again, it was because there simply wasn't a pulse to feel. The woman was dead. With the amount of blood that had been pouring from her head, it shouldn't have been a shock. Limply, he let his arm fall back down to the ground.

He lay there gasping. His head was pounding, and his vision kept spotting over. He stared with abject fear at the woman's face, calm and serene in her death. He stared at all the blood coming from the wound in her head, and he thought of the blood that had stained his hand when he'd pulled it away from his own. His stomach twisted, and his body went into another unwilling shiver. He closed his eyes in a flinch and whimpered in the back of his throat again. He longed to curl up defensively— to reach up and duck back behind his arms like he used to do when he was child. What he used to do whenever he was scared, or upset. Whenever he was trying to hide from a monster he knew there was no use in trying to fight.

Fear and the adrenaline was enough to make his head the tiniest bit clearer. But at the same time, the thoughts that were now able to crowd themselves forward were only ones that made him panic even more. It made him breathe faster, made him sob against the stitch only getting worse in his side. He was going to die. What if he died here, in this bus? He couldn't stand up and crawl out the top of the window. His leg wouldn't comply, and he couldn't pull himself up with both arms without running the risk of one of the glass shards tearing an artery and worsening his bleeding. He tried to see if someone was near that could help him, but the thought never made it to actual action. His body felt like it wasn't his— he felt like he weighed five tons. His head was spinning— he struggled to try and discern whether or not it was a deadly serious injury. But the terms wouldn't match up in his befuddled mind. Concussion…subdural hema— subarachnoid— cerebral—

His expression crumbled, and he couldn't tell what were tears on his face, and what were raindrops. He started to shake, only making it all worse. If he was thinking clearly, he would have known this was just shock, and he couldn't allow himself to fall into the trap of it. But he wasn't thinking clearly, and that was half of the reason he was so quick to break down. He was going to die in this bus. He was going to disappoint Melendez when he wouldn't show up to work, and Glassman would cry like he might have already begun to on the phone. Shaun would never get to see him again— he hadn't even really gotten the chance to even talk to him one final time before he died. Claire would be sad, because she'd already told him she would miss him if he left. Jared wasn't going to be able to joke with him anymore, even though he never really did get his teasing. He was going to disappoint all of them. He was going to mess everything up.

It was odd because the emotions conjured by this were all there, and Shaun could feel each one like a dagger in his heart. But his actual thoughts were all muddled, and to anyone else they might not have made sense. They were disoriented and confused, and nothing at all like they usually were. It scared him. Fear burned at his skin. Which would make his heart beat faster, which would just make him bleed even more, which would make him die quicker, which would—

He heard crying. Not his— someone else's. Someone close.

It had to fumble before it connected, but when it did, Shaun twisted so that he could look in its direction. Every miniscule shift was hell. But he turned all the same and waited for his eyesight to focus out enough to make sense of the source. It was the woman that had been talking to the mother and the son, before. She was sitting up, propped against the wall of the bus and hunkered low to the floor. Shaun looked down groggily, and saw that blood was pouring from her leg. The limb was practically ripped open. She looked just as confused and out of it as Shaun was, but her sobs were quickly growing and pinching in panic. Shaun didn't move; he just stared at her dully. Until her eyes rose up to meet his, and their stares locked into place.

Then, he moved.

He sucked in a slow breath and pushed his body up with his left arm again. A few other people were still moving around him, and waking up. He could hear them sort of, but he had tunnel-vision, and kept his eyes on the woman who was crying. He thought he saw someone standing nearer to the front of the bus, but he wasn't sure if that was real, or just another shadow in his line of vision. And it was hard to hear much over his own blood roaring in his ears. He just tried to focus on dragging himself to her. She was staring at him desperately now, at the clear attempt to help. He gritted his teeth against the agony of it all and kept going, pulling himself along with his one functioning arm. When he could, he grabbed onto the poles or pieces of broken railing and pulled himself in that way.

By the time he got to her, he was seeing mostly black again. He was trembling from head to toe, and fell again to his side. He had to close his eyes and breathe before he could begin to drag his rational thought back. And when he did, he squeezed his eyes closed tighter before he forced himself into a sitting position. His head reeled at the effort, and a weakened groan tumbled senselessly out of his mouth. His eyes were foggy when he looked at her, but he finally managed it. She was looking at him like her was her last hope. He kept his eyes on her leg, quickly bleeding out. His words came out slow, the syllables mixing together. "'M a…doctor," he breathed unsteadily.

With the information, she immediately began to beg. "Help me," she sobbed. His stomach clenched again, tighter this time. He swayed forwards and backwards, like he wasn't sure which way was best to fall. The woman kept crying. "Please help me, I— I feel cold." He felt cold, too. Only able to drag one hand into where he could actually still see, Shaun realized his palm was sliced and torn open from the bits of glass he had been forced to press down on to move. He dropped his arm and forgot it, looking back instead at the other injury. He desperately tried to concentrate, and think. To be logical, and understand what it was that had to be done. He couldn't see much. It was too fuzzy. But he knew heavy bleeding, and there wasn't much to work with in general…

He flapped his arm back and forth uselessly, trying to worm it out of the sleeve of his jacket. It was soaked through with rain, which made it more difficult than usual. He kept trying. The woman was looking down at her leg in anguish, her expression growing hazier. It was that shock again. No— no, that was— shock was bad, shock was bad, wasn't it? Right. How did you…? "L—" The one letter slipped out and lasted for about two seconds before he had to cut it off and start over. "Look at me," he pleaded. "Just…look at me. Pay…attention to me, please." Each word seemed to come with some kind of delay. They were thin and raspy, and not comprised of much at all. Merely exhausted and disoriented exhales.

But all the same, she turned to him. She still breathed fast, and her expression was still too vacant. But she obeyed, and maybe that would be enough to help her until someone could get her out of here. Shaun managed the one sleeve, and now came the harder part. He twisted, a fragile retching sound worming from his throat as his side was forced to contort despite the broken ribs. And when he grabbed onto his other sleeve and began to tug downward, clumsy and rash in his own confusion, his arm tore with added agony when the material ripped out some of the glass on its way. He ducked his head down low so that it was nearly touching his chest. He bit down hard to help himself pull it off the rest of the way, realizing too late that it was a dumb move when a metallic tang flooded over his tongue.

He choked and spluttered, and felt blood leak out the corner of his mouth and down his chin. But he didn't pay any attention. He finally managed to get his jacket off of him, somehow. From there, rose another problem. The next step. He stared at her leg, debating. She was losing blood and she was losing it fast. He looked down at his right arm. Taking off the jacket had pulled out some of the shards, which left the wounds left behind the opportunity to bleed openly. Some had still stayed— there were three or four larger pieces of glass embedded down too deep in his skin to be tugged out. His head was still bleeding – he could feel the blood trickling back down his neck, now – and his vision shook with every movement, like he was watching the world from inside a snow globe.

He was going to die, if he kept moving.

But his eyes were drawn back to her leg. She was going to die too, if he didn't help her.

He began to force his right arm up, ignoring the hot blood that ran down it in response. He narrowed his eyes against it, and, using his shoulder as the driving means in getting his ruined arm to meet his other one, he started to loop the sleeves so there was one on either side of her. He started to try and tie them together tightly, right above where the wound began. Staunch the bleeding…he couldn't do much, but he could do that. He choked back thick swallow after swallow, and cry after cry as he did. His fingers didn't want to listen to him. His arm could barely move. His body wanted to shut down, in the attempt to stave off further injury.

His subconscious was trying to save him, and he was willingly going against it.

Somehow managing to grab hold of the sleeves tightly, he started to pull hard, once he got them looped around each other. His left palm was sliced open and stabbed with glass. His vision exploded in white as he grabbed fast to the cloth and tugged, despite it. And there wasn't much strength behind his right arm. It just meant he had to try longer, and pull more. He watched with a dead and numbed expression that was only getting more distant with each second. Shock— he couldn't go into— shock, he couldn't…lose focus, or— but the pain was getting too much, and if he—

His lips started to move, just barely twitching to get the words out. His voice was the tiniest rasp, swallowed up more or less by the rain thundering on the ruined metal. He wasn't even sure himself what was coming out, at first; his mind was half-dead, and half-there. But he found, once he did hear what it was, that he knew it. And as he struggled to do the simple action of tying a firm knot with his jacket sleeves, he tried to focus on the speech that tumbled its way out, rather than the overwhelming suffering.

"I swear…to fulfill…to the best— of my ability…" He staggered, lurching forward and blanking for a heartbeat as he was forced to breathe through a wave of pain. He wavered, waffling back and forth again like he was going to pass out. He almost did. Before he was able to straighten, and return to his work. "And judgement," he exhaled. The woman was looking at him still, but she was quickly beginning to lose consciousness. Shaun's shoulders began to hunch forward. He wavered, tried to steel himself, and tugged again, feeling it almost tight enough. His hand and his arm were burning. His voice was saturated with distress. "This…covenant," he wheezed.

One more final tug, and there was no tighter he could make it. He started to fall to the side and caught himself from hitting the ground head-on with his left arm. His right one flopped uselessly to the ground, throbbing. He grimaced, closing his eyes as his ripped-open palm made hard contact with the bus. His body was relaxing again, against his will. He couldn't get his eyes to open. He could hear people talking louder now, but couldn't make out what they were saying. He tried to move, to push himself up. But he couldn't. Weakly, his lips still moved, with a mind of their own. He was losing his grip on reality, but he was struggling to do all he could to prevent it. "I will…respect th— hard…won…scientific gains of— those…physicians…" His voice was growing weaker, the words coming out slower and with more difficulty. He sagged to the ground, his muscles going slack. "In…whose…steps…in whose…steps I…I…walk…and…and…and…"

When he opened his eyes again, the woman was gone. He didn't know where she went. There were voices in the distance; in comparison to before, they were much softer, and much farther away. There weren't as many people, either. Not as many that were moving, anyway. Those from before, who had been staggering to their feet, were gone. It was much quieter. Much emptier. Everything seemed more muted, somehow. He felt like he was floating somewhere far away from everything else. The pain was less noticeable now, which he might have realized was a bad thing if he was realizing anything. But he wasn't.

He couldn't even really tell where he was, in the shattered and twisted wreckage of the bus. There wasn't much sense of, well…anything. He wasn't sure which way was up, he wasn't sure if hours had passed since the crash or just fifteen minutes. He wasn't sure if there were emergency services here or not. If there were, he wasn't sure why he was still there. Shaun lay there numbly as his confused and disjointed thoughts rush this way and that, until he stopped for a moment and realized that he could hear a noise. It was crying again, but this time it was a different kind. It sounded strange, and Shaun turned, blinking slowly as he tried to narrow his eyes and refocus his vision. It was blurry and warped, but he could see down near the other end of the bus was a hunched form. A woman, that was rasping softly. She wasn't the one crying. It didn't sound like she was, anyway. Or look like it.

The woman was calling for help. The bus was almost empty, now. Almost empty save for lifeless bodies like the one Shaun had woken up to that weren't going to leave. In his fuzzy mind, it didn't make sense to him. If people were gone…why wasn't she? Why wasn't he? And what was she—? His stomach tightened. He blinked a few more times, and the tiniest spark of intelligence fostered itself in the back of his gaze. He remembered, now. It hit him, after a tiny lapse. But he could recall that she was one of the people he'd noticed, before the bus had crashed. He could barely grab ahold of it— everything was smeared and confused, like he was trying to read a letter in this rain. All the words were running together, and it was only with the faintest sense of assuredness that he even thought he was reading it correctly.

But he thought he remembered the mother sitting with her baby. He thought the woman resembled her.

And that was enough to finally place why the crying sounded so different.

He didn't know where help was. Surely it was here? Even in his state, he could recognize that not everyone could have gotten up and walked out of here on their own. Certainly not the woman with the bleeding leg. Maybe those who were better off could have helped those that were more injured, but still. It could have been ten minutes since the bus crashed, it could have been twenty; he'd lost consciousness too many times to be able to properly discern. What he could discern now, was the woman pleading for help. That nobody else was going to her.

He didn't think he could. His eyes fluttered closed again, and his head went slack for the briefest of seconds. He almost went under all over again. But he didn't. What Shaun did do was turn and push himself up. Push himself all the way up, this time. First, he got into a sitting position, and from there, wobbling sharply back and forth, he waited about two seconds before he decided it was worse to give himself a moment to actually reflect on what he was about to do. Instead, he grabbed hold of the nearest pole that was somehow still standing, and use it to brace himself to his feet. Immediately, he staggered and had to take up all his weight on the leg that wasn't broken. The inferno of pain quickly sparked back to life in his side, and his right arm dangled uselessly.

His other arm clutched around his middle, as if it would do anything against the bile beginning to burn in his stomach, and Shaun started to stagger towards the woman. He had to bend over, too tall to stand upright, but he was still faster, and could hold onto what was left on the bus to help him along. His steps were tiny stumbles, his strides barely measuring out an inch as he slowly made his way further into the bus. His teeth were grinding down hard to keep from screaming; he kept it bottled in the back of his throat as best he could. He kept going, despite the red haze that was replacing his vision. And though he couldn't move his lips at the moment, in his effort to keep from screeching out the pain he was feeling, his thoughts were confused enough to wander and pick up the last thing he'd been thinking over.

It wasn't where he left off, but that was fine. He wasn't even really paying any attention. This was a speech so practiced and memorized at this point, that he wasn't even really aware he was thinking it over in the first place.

'I will…remember that there is art to medicine…as well as science, and that warmth, sympathy, and understanding may outweigh the surgeon's knife or the chemist's drug.'

He hobbled closer and closer, until eventually his leg gave out and he was left to crumple back to the floor. His breathing was harsh and labored with the effort it took, but he had made it. The woman looked at him wildly as he collapsed near her. She was stricken, and her expression was layered in fear. When she spoke, it was nothing more than a whisper. Apparently, she couldn't manage more than that. "I— I don't know where the paramedics went! She— she's under there, my baby is under there!" He grimaced as he straightened again. Foggy eyes went to the mess she was indicating. It was a cluster of crushed chairs and metal that had been ripped from the bus. Surely enough, the cries were coming from there. Panicked and scared and in pain, but as it was, the cries meant she was still alive. "I can't get her out!" the woman cried in a raspy hiss, looking down at her arm, which was bent at a severe and awkward angle. "Please help me!"

Shaun's thinking was getting less and less effective. His blood loss was getting to be too much. But still, he kept his eyes on the problem at hand. "She's…" He didn't finish, because he wasn't even sure what he had been planning to say in the first place. He just leaned over, practically falling over at the waist as he grabbed at the nearest chair with his good arm. His side split again, and he had to hesitate, before he wormed his other arm into action, too. He barely had any strength left in him. It was almost a given that he had spent it all just to get back here to her. But he still tried. He narrowed his eyes and ducked his head as he started to push aside the heavy seat. He trembled with the effort. His head swam.

'I will not be ashamed to say, 'I know not', nor will I fail to call in my colleagues when the skills of another are needed for a patient's recovery.'

He gritted his teeth and felt a fresh wave of blood burst in his mouth. Looking back on it, the attempt at help was more dangerous than waiting for help to come back for them. He wasn't thinking, and therefore he couldn't stop to think logically about the repercussions of what could happen if he moved the wrong thing and it all fell like a Jenga tower. He could have accidentally crushed the little girl, simply because he couldn't stop and think about his actions in the normal practiced way he usually did.

But thankfully, at least for this one instance, luck was on his side. The woman watched apprehensively as he pushed and worked at the mess, trying to help when she could but not being able to add much either. Shaun got his other arm to work just a little bit, more using his shoulder as the force behind it as he fumbled and jerked. He cleared a small opening, and, lurching forward on accident at the purely right moment, he flinched as one of the seats on top of the mass tumbled down to prop itself against his back. He slackened, and almost collapsed under the drop. But somehow, he stayed up to brace it.

Miraculously, the infant was wedged between two hunks of metal, but she was mostly unharmed. She had cuts and bruises, and her body was stiff, but she wasn't at risk of anything else. The mother quickly worked her way in around Shaun to delicately pick her child back up with her one functioning arm. When she pulled back and held her daughter close, she looked at Shaun tearfully, her bloodied face breaking out into a wide grin. "Thank you," she sobbed, still unable to speak much above a whisper. Her lower lip trembled, as Shaun started to work his way back out from under the chairs without it falling on him. Mostly, though, he just inched back and sagged to the side. The chair on top of him did end up falling, but not on any of them. "Thank you so much," she cried.

His stare was void of much of anything, but his eyes did flicker to the baby. Softly, he whispered: "Whiplash…" The mother frowned and looked down. Shaun's eyes closed, and he hung his head, slouching against the wreckage. "Be careful…don't…she has— whiplash…" he slurred. His left hand wasn't stinging anymore; it was numb. His arm was tingling all over and losing sensation as well. His left leg was stinging harsh with pain every other second. It was the only thing he could feel anymore. He couldn't even feel his headache.

The mother nodded. "Okay— okay. Thank you," she repeated. Shaun couldn't even hear her. That was going fuzzy now, too. She looked at him worriedly, and glanced to the side. The bus's windshield had been shattered by the paramedics coming in. Though she didn't know where they were now, the doorway they had made was still standing wide open. Since the bus was on its side, it was the perfect means of exit. She looked back at him, her face falling. "Do you— need help?" she asked. She wasn't sure how she could assist. She only had one arm, and it was holding her baby.

Shaun almost didn't register the question. When he did, he mumbled something that might have been an answer. But it didn't make any sense whatsoever.

The woman hesitated. "I'll get you help," she pledged. And before Shaun could even open his eyes to look at her again, she was wobbling up to her feet and staggering for the way out.

He stayed put for a second, unable to do much else. It was getting harder and harder to breathe. Each inhale grew more and more labored, and somehow more and more shallow, at the same time. He wanted to sleep. He was tired. He was still so, so tired. He was motionless for a long time, until his expression crumbled yet again, just like it had before. Until, against the growing weight of disorientation he was feeling, he felt the tiniest lingering hint of panic and remorse he had experienced at the start of all this.

His better arm dragged into motion. It dragged over the floor – he was numbed to the tiny shards of glass now – until it could come close to him and delve down into his pocket. His fingers wouldn't listen to him, and it took a couple of tries to wrap them around the tiny scalpel he always had there. But eventually they did, and just as agonizingly-slowly, he brought it out. He wanted to squeeze it as tightly as he could and bring it close to his chest, like he usually did when he was in a panic. But he could only balance it in his gashed hand; his fingers wouldn't comply enough for the squeeze. Not in that moment, at least. His arm was going dead too— it was too heavy to move. His whole body was too heavy to move. It was shutting down on him, and there was nothing he could do.

His eyes closed slowly, and he felt his body begin to unclench. He started to feel everything slip away. He was almost happy for the relief. He wanted the crushing pain to be gone. He wanted a chance to breathe again, without his side puncturing in agony. Limp among the debris and ruin, Shaun started to finally give into what he had been skirting dangerously close to for far too long, now.

When, suddenly, a voice grumbled to him— almost irritated, and grouchy. A voice that was alarmingly-clear, in contrast to the muddled way he'd heard everything else. 'You have got to be kidding me!' He twitched, his forehead creasing blearily. His eyes opened again. Hazy and dark as his vision was, it was still there. The voice went on, ringing true. 'You've gotta have more faith in yourself, Shaun.' His eyes fell down towards the scalpel in his hands. He flinched, and worked his fingers to close around it more. He could only manage a loose hold. But it was more than before. 'You're like, the strongest person I know. And besides! I can help you!'

Shaun moved. He forced himself up off the mess of broken chairs, and he shifted so that his back was pressed to the mass instead. He cried as he dragged his good leg underneath him, so he could put pressure down and stand back up. He wavered severely back and forth, and he almost dropped Steve's scalpel when he choked on the pain that ensued. He was wrapped in it, and for a dangerous moment, it seemed as though the blackness would swarm forward again, and he would fall right back under. But it was able to ebb away, however slowly, and he started to take baby steps towards the way out, just as slow as he had been to come all the way back here. He choked and gagged nearly every step, but he refused to stop trying. He lifted his head up just the tiniest bit, ignoring the flash of pain that went up his neck, and he looked with squinted eyes at the makeshift exit.

He could make it.

He was almost halfway there, when a gasp caused him to stop. He jerked, staring blearily at the ground for a heartbeat, before he started to turn around. He didn't really have the time to, though. Someone had apparently just woken up— the way he had, mixed in with those that didn't have a pulse anymore. They'd woken up a short while ago, when the woman Shaun had helped was just about halfway out of the bus. But it had taken some time for everything to dawn over the person, and it had taken some time for them to recognize what had happened. Their gasp was sign enough that the conclusion had been reached. And no sooner than it had, were they scrambling up to their feet.

They were largely unscathed, in comparison to injuries like Shaun's. But the shock they felt over being landed in the situation was apparently much harder to control. No sooner did Shaun turn to look back at them, just in case they needed help, did they suddenly take off in a blind run. It would have been a sprint, had it not been for the limp that plagued one leg. They were clumsy and uncoordinated in their stumbling, and they were going much too fast. Their eyes were wide and near-crazed…they probably weren't even seeing where they were going, in their panic and rush to get out.

Which meant they didn't even see Shaun.

As they pelted for the exit, a gleaming gateway out of this mess, their shoulder made hard contact with Shaun's. It knocked him clear off his feet; he was left to whirl back around and crash into the ground with a hefty and painful thud. He landed on his bad side— his broken leg was what made first contact with the floor, and his injured side was next to feel the repercussion. He was shoved back down to where he'd first woken up— in the divot of the advertisements. The slam was hard; it paralyzed his lungs and knocked the wind straight out of him. Which, in a roundabout way, was good thing. If he had any air left to give, it would have immediately been shoved out in an agonizing, blood-curdling screech.

Rendered mute, his eyes were just wide and hollow as he fought to take in the tiniest gasp of air. His leg was shredding itself from the inside out…fragments of bone were tearing and ripping through blood vessels from the impact now, if they hadn't been making slow work of that already, thanks to his excessive movement. Even more glass stabbed into him as he fell near the windows, and even though it felt like little knives were jabbing clear through his skin, he couldn't make a single sound. When he could take harsh and gulping breaths in, they were far too shallow to even begin to be enough. His head had missed most of the fall, but it had knocked against the edge of the dip when he landed in it, and just the tiny tap was enough. It was reeling off his shoulders, and his vision was spotting over with black.

He only breathed faster. A low, wailing noise of agony was left to start and die and start and die in the back of his throat, but it was much too quiet to hear. He fought to breathe, to function, but he couldn't. It was only getting harder. He could feel his body grow cold and numb, and though he was far from recognizing anything of the sort himself, he was quickly going into shock. He was drowning. He tried to keep his head above water, but he had been floundering for far too long and now he was sinking. His good arm and his leg twitched, as if in a final attempt to get up and keep fighting. For Steve. For Glassman. For Claire.

But he couldn't.

He choked and spluttered on his hyperventilation. His expression was stricken, but it was quickly beginning to relax, despite everything else. His entire body was relaxing, and this time he couldn't do a single thing to stop it. He didn't know where Steve's scalpel had gone. He couldn't even feel his hand anymore— he couldn't feel the blood that was now leaking slowly out of his arm, rather than the profuse gush it had before. His shattered leg was lost to the shock, too. And the faster he breathed, the less he could feel the burning stitch in his side.

He tried to keep aware. But even that was falling apart.

'Most especially…tread with care in— matters of life and…death. If it is given— to save a life, all thanks.'

He started to sag forward. His muscles loosened. His head dipped forward.

'But it may…may also be…to take a life— above all…I must not…play God.'

His eyes started to glaze over, before they shut entirely. Each inhale slowly decayed in strength. To gasps, to hisses, to wheezes, to barely anything at all.

'May I enjoy life…respected while I live…and remembered with affection thereafter.'

He tried to stand up against it. But he couldn't.

'May I…long experience…the…joy of…healing…those who…seek…my…'

Shaun gave one last, final shiver, before he fell completely still.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

"Shaun?" he called, the name hollow and ringing with quickly-growing desperation. Glassman was weaving through the small crowd of people, looking left and right wildly as he searched for a glimpse of him. He looked for his mop of brown hair, or the look he usually had when he was fed-up with a situation but forced to suffer through it anyway— a look that Glassman had come to know quite well over the years. He knew that look like the back of his hand, really. But he couldn't see it anywhere. He couldn't see Shaun anywhere. He searched and searched and doubled back, but the familiar face didn't shine out of the throng around him.

It hadn't taken him very long at all to figure out where Shaun had called him from. As soon as Shaun had suddenly hung up on him, and as soon as he had tried to call him back only to have the call fail, Glassman had rushed for the television and turned on the news, trying to ignore how his hands shook when he held the remote. They were already talking about it when he had. A car had been going too fast in the rain and started to hydroplane, quickly getting out of control and swerving. It had smashed into another car, sending them both spinning out, and a bus had tried with no avail to avoid being hit by them. Instead, in crossing the intersection, it had actually just planted itself directly into the path of another packed bus, going just as fast. The two had slammed into each other full-force and flown, catching at least five other cars as they rolled and flipped.

He had gotten all of this, of course, as he'd turned away and scrambled for his keys. He had been in too much of a rush to turn the TV back off— it wasn't even close to on his mind. His thought process had been completely blank, really, by the time he'd been running out the door for his car. There had only been one clear thought he could make sense of as he'd practically out of his driveway, not at all showing the caution of someone who had just heard that bad road conditions had caused this accident in the first place. His one clear thought was: Shaun was in there. Somewhere in one of those busses, Shaun was stuck, and he was in pain— Glassman didn't know how badly.

Shaun was there. So he had to get there, too.

The road had already been blocked off by the time he'd started to near the scene. Though it had pained him to slow down, Glassman had known he didn't have a choice, unless he wanted to add onto the casualties that his night was going to have. He'd reluctantly lowered to the speed limit: the culprit for his later arrival. It hadn't rained this hard in San Jose since…well, he didn't remember the last time it had come down this hard, for this long. Seeing the block, he had been forced to pull over and get out in the storm, doing so, of course, without the smallest hesitation. Some of the police officers manning the barricade had rushed forward to try and keep him from running, and it had taken everything he had not to shove them off as they reached out to steady him.

"Sir, there's been a terrible accident," one of the officers had said, looking at him in a way that had seemed particularly demeaning. Or maybe that had just been just his panicked brain immediately kicking into defensive overdrive. She had tried to steer him back to his car, shaking her head. "Please get back into your car, I assure you that everything will be sorted out soon and then we can reopen the—"

He'd already been trying to get away from her as she started to herd him back, and underneath her soothing words, he'd tried to interrupt and explain. "No, you don't understand, you don't— listen to me, I have to— you don't— stop!" He'd jerked out of her grip and cut her off with this sharpened yell. She'd seemed surprised. Though she hadn't grabbed hold of him again, she had still stayed resolutely where she was between him and where he was trying to go. He'd rushed to explain. But he'd found out very quickly that it was harder than he'd anticipated. His voice came out thick and panicked. Choked with fear and worry that he'd already missed the window, and he was already taking too long, and already something happened to Shaun, and already he had lost him.

"I have to get there, I'm a— I'm a doctor, I'm a neurosurgeon at Saint Bonaventure, I'm the president of— but that's not the reason I have to—" She'd been looking at him oddly; he hadn't cared at all. He'd struggled to get something out. "I have to get there because he's— Shaun, he's— he's— my s— he's there, he's in there somewhere and I have to get him!" He'd spoken so fast it was a miracle she'd understood him, if she even did. He was never one to lose his temper easily, or lose grip of himself. But he had right then. He'd practically been shaking, and his throat had been threatening to close on him tightly. He'd kept on, when she still hesitated. "Let me through, please let me through, he called me, but he hung up, I don't think he— I need to find him, I need to help him."

She'd looked at him steadily. "Sir, I'm sure whoever it is will be taken to the hospital and you can see them then," she'd reasoned.

He'd looked at her in frustrated despair. He'd taken a step closer, and softly, practically losing it to the rain around them, he'd begged a quiet: "Please."

It led him to here, finally being able to worm his way into the accident. It was a chaotic mess. People were everywhere— EMS and fire department and police officers alike, all rushing back and forth to pick up the mess that was now taking up the entire road. There were cars smashed like aluminum cans, or flipped upside down. Some were still being worked open to free whoever was still inside. Among the medical professionals were stunned survivors of the crash just staring with owlish eyes— those who weren't as beaten up, or who weren't as high a priority as the ones that had already been rushed away in an ambulance.

Near the crash was a restaurant with a fairly large overhang that was being used as a makeshift shelter. That was where triage had been set up, it looked like. It was where most of the remaining, lower-priority crash victims were, and it was where Glassman was currently whirling around in search of his familiar face. He could see a young teenager huddled on the ground with a blanket around her shoulders; she was holding her arm tenderly and sandwiching her phone between her ear and her shoulder as she spoke tearfully to someone he could only guess to be a parent. There was a woman with a particularly nasty gash on her shoulder that an EMT was wrapping gauze around; Glassman could hear the professional soothing her, promising that she would only need a couple stitches. There were others with bruises and cuts that were asking if they could go home, just looking tired and shell-shocked.

Shaun wasn't among the group. He wasn't anywhere. Glassman's heart was thudding hard against his chest and he checked again, though he knew nothing would change. Shaun wasn't there. He was nowhere to be found. Wildly, he reached up and clutched his head, feeling his nerves begin to tear and fray. He looked back at the bus; he couldn't even tell which one was which, they were so beaten up. EMS was still filtering through, he could see a pair duck back in through the shattered windshield. Another had just left, carrying a body. With their unhurried manner, Glassman knew it was just a removal and nothing more. They were laying the person down on the ground to be taken care of later, and they were moving to do it all over again. Did that mean everyone had been helped that could be? Had he taken so long to get over here that it was just clean-up now?

There was a woman up ahead in uniform that took a moment to stop and breathe. She was soaking wet from head-to-toe; at this point, she wasn't even trying to find cover anymore. Her eyes flickered over the mess that was still left to sort through, and sighed. She seemed more than exhausted. But Glassman rushed out to her anyway. The rain was cold, and it chilled him all over again once he left the safety of the overhang. But it was starting to ease, slowly. It wasn't nearly as thundering as it had been before, and little by little, the storm was breaking and disappearing. Barely noticing this, Aaron ran towards her and reached out to get her to turn around. She looked very calm, despite everything. Glassman wasn't.

"Have you gotten everyone out?" he demanded, his voice clenched. She opened her mouth to reply, but he was sweeping on before she could, shaking his head a little bit with a grimace. "The— number four bus, have you gotten everyone out of the number four bus?" Her eyes softened, like she didn't need an explanation. Aaron found that he was giving her one anyway. "I have a— someone called me, from in there, and then the line dropped, I— I came here as quick as I could, but I don't see him." He looked back over his shoulder, as if to make sure one last time. His heart was sinking down to his feet. "I don't see him here, have you gotten everyone out?"

Her voice was layered with the professional sympathy and calm that he knew every medical aide was drilled with. It almost would have made him irritated, to be talked down to like he was just another confused and senseless bystander. But right now he wasn't in the right mind to do anything but listen to her. "Sir, I can assure you we're doing our best. Both of the busses were very full and there were quite a lot of critical cases we had to sort through. We've triaged everyone we've gotten so far, and a majority of people were rushed to the nearest hospital. If you can't find him, he could very well be one of the people we sent off."

Or he could be one of the bodies they were pulling out and tossing aside. Glassman closed his eyes tightly, and he choked back a swallow. He had said goodbye to Shaun less than twenty minutes before their call, when they were both still back at Saint Bonaventure. Shaun had smiled tiredly at him, and waved as he was stepping on the bus. They had said farewell, fully anticipating to see the other soon, like they did every night their shifts ended.

This wasn't supposed to be happening.

He searched her face, trying to find an answer that simply wasn't there. Throwing out his last hope, he tried: "Do you remember seeing a young man with brown hair?" Her expression already began to weaken, but he kept pushing. "He has blue eyes, he was— he was wearing a gray shirt and jeans, and he had a jacket on. He— he has autism, he's a surgical resident at Saint Bonaventure, he works for me but I—" He abandoned that half of it all. It wasn't important. "He…he might have been holding a little toy scalpel, he…he was wearing a backpack, he has these blue headphones, he— he likes pancakes, and football, and—" His throat swelled shut and he found that his eyes were burning as he looked away, clamping down on the unnecessary details.

The woman softened in sympathy. But she had already been loitering for too long. Charlie needed help working that last car. The person inside was pretty okay, oddly enough, but the car was smashed, and proving a difficult thing to wrench open. She took in a slow breath and moved to catch his eye more. "I didn't see anyone like that," she replied. Immediately, Glassman shut his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. She rushed to reassure him in some way. "But I can ask around…maybe someone else handled him. For now, I have to get back to helping, and you should get back under there with everyone else. It's much drier."

Glassman didn't move; he stared dully down at the pavement between his feet. The woman started to turn and double back to her coworkers, when there was a louder, more impatient yell from the restaurant a few feet behind them. "No! That's not him! I said that already!" The voice was high and somewhat squeaky, coming out of what sounded like a ruined throat. It didn't sound nearly as loud as what the person made it seem like it should be. The two of them turned at once. A woman had been the one to cry out. She was holding a baby in her arms, who had been crying in the background of all of this. Funnily enough, Glassman was just now noticing the noise. Despite this, the woman was leaning away, adverse to the help of the EMT in front of her. She seemed inconsolable, and half-dazed. "It's not him, that's not the man that helped me!"

She was indicating someone sitting near her. Their eyes were wide and hollow; a blanket was wrapped tightly around them, and they were shivering every so often. They didn't react at all to her snapping. They looked like a textbook case of ebbing shock. The EMT looked over at the hunkered person and back to the mother, looking worn. "He ran out right after you," he reasoned, trying to keep his voice light and soothing. "Are you sure it wasn't just—?" She glared at him, and he sighed, dropping that line before it could even finish. He just started over. "Look, I sent my two friends in there one more time to do a final sweep; if there's anybody at all in there that's still got a pulse, they'll bring them out, okay? But I really need to look at your arm. And your baby needs medical attention."

The woman weakened. She looked down at her daughter. Glassman hardly caught her next words. If the rain hadn't started to stop, it would have been lost on him. "He said she had whiplash."

Aaron stiffened at this. He broke away from the woman he'd been talking to and rushed back, nearly tripping over himself. The mother looked up in alarm when he neared. But at least she was relenting her hold on her baby, and the EMT could begin to help. "You said someone helped you?" he demanded, nearly breathless. She hesitated— it seemed to take her a moment to buffer with the question; blood was leaking out of a minor head injury. But once she did sort through the inquiry, she managed a nod. Glassman weakened. "Did he have brown hair? Blue eyes? Was he a doctor? Did he— say anything else to you?"

"N-No…" she rasped. Glassman's eyes stayed wide, but he weakened in confusion. The hope that had been quick to start burning in his chest started to decay as quickly as it had sprung up. She rushed back to fix the response. "No, he— he didn't say anything to me other than that. He just helped me get my baby back, he was— he was really hurt, but I couldn't help him, I— I told him I would send someone back for him, but I don't think he even heard me," she whispered, her voice beginning to give out. Glassman's stomach heaved. He felt that distinct pull of sickness again. "He was so nice…" she mumbled, beginning to space out. The EMT looked at her worriedly, juggling the two of them now at once. "He came…all the way back to me…just to help…"

Glassman was stiff, rooted where he was. Some part of him was wondering whether he should lend himself to the cause and help with the few people he could. There wasn't a lot left, in the grand scheme of things. Everyone who could leave had either already done so, or they were waiting for a ride. Everyone that absolutely needed care had been ferried off, and soon the ambulances would come and go and come and go and come and go to get everyone else to an emergency room. They'd done quick work. Already, since he'd gotten here, the crowd had thinned out. All that remained were easy fixes that could wait a bit more to get further treatment. That, of course, and curious passerbys that were just there to witness it all unfold, of course.

The other part of him, however, knew that he wouldn't be able to even begin to think clearly until—

"Hey! We need a gurney over here, now!"

The very second the call was hitting his eardrums, Glassman was spinning around. His heart leapt up to lodge in his throat even before he turned, as if he somehow knew exactly what the shout was for. Sure enough, stepping carefully out through the windshield-exit, were the two people that he saw going in just a few moments before. One was walking backwards, the other forwards, a few feet behind. Each of them was holding the end of a long board, on which someone was strapped in firmly, with a cervical collar locked around their neck. The person was completely immobilized, but it didn't make a difference. The body was just as still and unmoving as the dead one that had been carted out before. That had been laid on the ground and left for the moment at hand to put into a bag later.

But Glassman staggered. His knees almost gave out; he almost collapsed, right there on the curb. He knew whose body that was. He recognized it immediately, even with the distance.

"Shaun!" he screamed. The cry was guttural and keening. Despite the EMT's warning from behind him, he started to run, tearing away from the crowd of onlookers and sprinting towards the two.

Shaun didn't react to his screech at all. He wasn't reacting to anything. Another ambulance had just rushed back onto the scene, and they were immediately responding to the distress call. As soon as someone had rushed over with the stretcher, the men were depositing Shaun on top of it. They set him down with an extreme amount of care. The older of the two men began to speak, his voice tense. "Kid's in bad shape— we barely saw him. He's got three broken ribs on his right side, shrapnel and glass are buried everywhere, but especially in his right arm and left hand. His left leg is shattered completely; he's got swelling, so internal bleeding's likely. He's got a nasty slice on the back of his head, be careful with it. He's barely breathing at all— he's going to go into hypovolemic shock if he hasn't already started. We don't get him to a hospital in the next five minutes, there's not a chance in hell." All this was said in a rush, urgency making each syllable run together. But the others grasped it immediately. They were making quick work in strapping him down in place, so they could rush him away to the ambulance.

Glassman was practically running blind. Rain was dripping down into his eyes, and his vision was long gone thanks to the tears that were now flooding them. Anything in his peripherals faded away. All he could see was Shaun as he stumbled closer. His eyes were closed, and he wasn't reacting at all to anything going on around him. It didn't even look like he was breathing— whatever air he did manage to take in wasn't enough. The man was still talking, rushing on about saline and ventilation as they started to rush away. Glassman slipped on the slick road and had to catch himself as he called out again, trying to get them to stop. "Shaun! Wait! Wait, let me see him!" The plea was senseless, and shattered with emotion. They ignored him and kept running, save for one.

It was the other person that had helped bring Shaun out. He looked back at Glassman and hesitated only for a moment, but that moment was enough for him to reach him. The older man was looking past him, as Shaun was loaded into the back of the emergency vehicle. One person was rushing for IV fluids, another was already putting a mask over Shaun's mouth for oxygen. Distraught and unthinking, Glassman started to stagger towards them, the personnel who'd stopped reaching out cautiously. "I need to see him, I need to— he called me, he was trying to— I need to be with him, I need to be with him!" His voice crumbled in on the beg. He felt like his legs were made of rubber— like he couldn't walk anymore, and he'd just collapse if he took another step.

The EMT's eyes seemed raw with pain, and his voice betrayed him when he spoke. It was more congested, and apologetic. He was much younger, in comparison to all the others that were on the scene. "Sir, I'm sorry, we only allow family in the back of the ambulance in situations like these." Glassman's chest constricted in white-hot panic as he watched them finish loading Shaun into the car. There was another person already on the bench— the ambulance was already attempting to transport more than one patient at a time. With the high influx of wounded people, such a thing had likely been happening this entire time. The men were still yelling at each other, whipping frantic directions back and forth.

They were going to drive away with Shaun. The fact was enough to stab him through the heart.

What if Shaun didn't make it? What if he died there, in the back of that ambulance, and he wasn't there with him?

It burst out of his mouth before he could stop it. "He's my son!" he cried, all but sobbing when he turned back to the younger man. They blinked a few times in alarm. Glassman kept fumbling. "He's my son, he— I have to be with him, I have to be there if he—" He choked on the word. He wasn't able to get it out. Pathetically, all he could get out next was a weaker: "Please let me stay with him, please."

The other hesitated. He glanced back at the car. They didn't have time. Glassman knew, at least in technical terms, he was lying. But apparently, the only proof the EMT needed for this relationship was the expression on his face, because he quickly reached over and grabbed his shoulder, steering him for the ambulance. "Come on," he urged, looking a little nervous himself as he led him, as if he wasn't sure if it would even work. But they were running out of time, in every sense of the word, so if they were going to do anything, it had to be now.

Glassman might have been tripping over himself in gratitude to the man as he started to lead, or he may have been completely silent in his shock; he wasn't even sure himself.

The only thing he was sure of, was that he was running to Shaun.

That he was going to be there for him.

He just prayed to God that it wouldn't be for the last time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience! Finals are coming up for me so I stayed up late this last night I have because I knew if I didn't get it out tonight I wouldn't get it out for nearly two more weeks. So I hope it's good enough! I tried to do as much research as possible and put as much as I could into this, but I am always looking to make something of mine better. I also went through and edited it, like I always do, but given that it is 5:00 in the morning and I'm very very tired, I may have slipped up on a few. So! As always, if there are glaring ones, I'd love to fix them.  
> I hope you like this chapter! I had big shoes to fill after the first one so I hope you all like it just as much. And I hope I get to hear your thoughts on it! Thank you for reading! :) <3

Aaron Glassman was a doctor. A renowned one— he was considered one of the best neurosurgeons in California. He'd seen practically every case there was to see. He'd read as many books as one could, wriggled in somewhere among the taxing and never-ending schedule that came with a career in the medical field. He'd been in plenty of packed ERs, and he had handled plenty of life-or-death situations. He'd been the one to lead most of those moments, the only thing standing in the way of a person being able to see their family again or never taking another breath— and he had never broken a sweat. He had been completely calm and in check, his hands never even betraying him with the tiniest of tremors. He was experienced. He was collected. He was relaxed. He was calm.

But none of those situations were like this.

In none of those situations, did he ever have a stake any bigger than just his professional reputation.

In none of those situations, did he know the person who was on that brink.

In none of those situations, did he care about them. Did he love them. Or need them.

Now, he was anything but centered. As he stumbled towards the ambulance, he felt completely numb; yet at the same time, he felt like he was burning from the inside, out. His throat was stinging, his eyes were streaming, and he could barely put one foot in front of the other without capsizing. It was miracle he reached the emergency vehicle without collapse. Everything around him sounded muffled and far away. Like he was at the end of a long tunnel, and everyone was shouting back to him from miles ahead. It was garbled and indistinct. Completely meaningless. The only thing he could make sense of was Shaun. Unmoving. Lifeless. Once inside the ambulance, the young man had been connected to the cardiac monitor— now, its frantic beeping was permeating any and all background noise. The rhythm was too fast. Much too fast.

He was dying.

"What are you doing!?" The man that had been taking charge of the situation so far whirled around as Glassman started to climb into the back of the ambulance. The question was thrown to the young EMT behind him, who stiffened a bit at the anger in his voice. "What is he doing in here!? We don't have any room!"

As he yelled this, he glowered openly in Glassman's direction. Stress was making him abrasive and callous. Beside him, his partner was bending over Shaun, measuring from his teeth to the angle of his jawline as she muttered to herself under her breath. She shook her head and turned, quickly rifling away for something she needed. "Still unresponsive, breathing is only getting worse— his tongue is getting in the way, we're going to need an OPA!" This was all snapped out, but it was only for anyone that wanted to hear, because she was already fishing out the correctly-sized one. She came back with the tubing and opened Shaun's mouth, checking the fit one last time before she began to force it down into place in his throat. She shook her head dismally, even as she managed it open, looking at her partner with growing intensity. "We need suction, he's going to choke on blood!"

"Get him out!" the man just snapped again.

"He's his father!" the youngest member cried. "I couldn't turn him away!"

The one in charge cursed under his breath, shooting Glassman one last look before he gave up and turned back to Shaun. Throughout the entire exchange, Aaron's eyes had been nowhere else. As the woman secured Shaun's airway with the oropharyngeal tube, he waited to see him take in a stronger breath than the ones he had before. He waited for some kind of response, or sign that he would be alright. But there wasn't any. Shaun's eyes were still closed. His lungs could only manage shallow, uneven gasps. Each breath was the smallest of twitches. Glassman's lips were trembling now, and he found that he couldn't support himself any longer. His knees buckled, and he fell back onto the bench of the ambulance, next to the other, lesser patient, who was watching the entire scene with huge eyes.

Shaun looked so small. Tiny. Helpless. Like the little boy that Aaron had seen running down the side of the road in a panic. He was soaking wet from the rain; his bangs stuck down against his forehead. Blood marred the back of his neck and clumped in his hair, where his head injury was. Just like it was absolutely soaking his right arm. And that was what made Glassman's head reel the most. The blood. The sheer amount of it. It was everywhere.

All along his arm, his shirt, his shoulders. His left hand was completely ruined— the palm of it was nothing more than one huge, gaping wound. His skin was a stark white, ghostly pale from all that he had lost. And how much had he lost? Half a liter? An entire liter? Two? How could he have gotten this bad? How could he have been missed by the paramedics who were filtering in and out of that bus? Glassman stared in horror as the woman standing over him placed the oxygen mask back over his mouth, desperately trying to get him moving more air. Still, there was no change.

The man looked at the youngest, begrudgingly accepting the presence of the 'father' and just barking out to him instead: "Get in front. When I tell you to go, you go. Get us to the nearest hospital, and you'd better get us there fast." The young man nodded and, with one last apologetic glance towards Glassman, he slammed the doors of the ambulance and started to round the vehicle to the driver's side. The man turned back to Shaun and looked him over, the gears turning fast in his head. He looked at his partner, who was pressing the ventilation mask once more to his mouth, now that it had been securely opened. But still… "Tachycardia's getting worse, his oxygen levels are dropping."

"Blood pressure is dropping too," she replied, "we need to leave, now."

"No, we can't—"

"We're losing him!" she snapped.

Glassman was still completely riddled with shock. He couldn't grasp a single, rational thought before it slipped through his fingers. All his years of medical school were out the window completely, in this moment. He couldn't breathe— his own lungs were failing him, just like Shaun's were shutting down. He couldn't see clearly through the sheen of tears in his eyes. Shaun was just a blur of colors that didn't make any rational sense. His mouth opened, like some part of him was trying to speak. But nothing came out, save for the most heartbroken of noises that was much too quiet to be heard. It was lost to the chaos and the panic of everything. But it practically ripped open his chest on its way out.

"Check his jugular vein," the lead ordered, turning and looking over the monitor in a rush. He was nodding to himself, and already turning back to Shaun. He reached up to move the stethoscope that was slung around his neck. He leaned over to listen to his chest, his eyes narrowing in concentration. Glassman tried to watch and make sense of what he was doing, or what he was beginning to try and mean. But when he looked down, all he could see were the bruises that were already there. It was like his entire side was one long injury, bright red and glaring from whatever impact he must have experienced on the bus. It was swollen and painful to even look at. The severity of it took Glassman's breath away, and he could only stare at him in alarm.

"It's distended," the woman reported immediately.

At the same moment, the man straightened and shook his head. "I can't hear any pulmonary activity on this side," he said, indicating the side that was most bruised. "He's got pneumothorax, we can't move until we can get him breathing right again. One of his ribs must have punctured his lung." She immediately straightened, and turned to delve into the shelves along the wall. From their supplies, she wasted no time before she produced a large bore-hole catheter, and handed it to the head ALS provider.

He accepted the needle and turned, lining it up to the space between Shaun's ribs with practiced precision. His heart rate was only getting faster. Now, his chest was hardly even moving. The woman was beginning to pull away from him, alarmed. They were running out of time they didn't even have, with every passing second, but they couldn't leave until this was done. The bouncing and swerving that could take place as they drove would make it nearly impossible to insert the catheter into his lung without risking more damage.

As soon as the man inserted the needle, and a rush of the bottled-back air was finally able to escape, Shaun's chest falling in a heavy rush, he called back to the driver, who'd been waiting tensely. "Go, go!" And no sooner did the order come, were the sirens flipped on and the accelerator was slammed. Glassman waited anxiously, leaning forward and straining to see the change. It seemed more regulated, now that the air was allowed an alternative means of escape. His chest moved more normally, and Glassman began to hope that maybe this wouldn't be as big a nightmare as it was looking to be.

But Shaun only managed three or four breaths before he faltered and stilled all over again. Before the rise and fall suddenly vanished. Glassman saw this immediately, and absolute horror froze him in place. Shaun wasn't breathing. His heart was stuttering faster and faster, on the monitor. The thoughts connected, out of everything that was assaulting him, and Glassman's own breathing began to hitch into hyperventilation as he leaned forward. He was waiting, waiting for something, waiting for a sudden change— for Shaun to move, to twitch, to gasp, to—

The monitor flatlined. The gaps were getting too short, his heart had been working too hard, he'd lost too much blood, he'd suffered too much trauma, he'd—

"No!" The screech was so loud it practically tore Glassman's throat to shreds.

"Shit!" the lead cursed. "Angela, get—"

She was already getting out the defibrillator, unsticking the pads and placing them on Shaun's stilled chest in a rush. Glassman wasn't looking at them anymore, though. He was biting down hard on every sob that fought to get out, but he was too far gone to know whether or not he was effective in holding them back. His entire body was shaking, and a horrible mixture of shock and grief was bottling itself in the back of his throat, practically shoving to get out in the form of another desperate scream.

Shaun's face was serene and completely relaxed. Like he was just sleeping after a long shift of work, so that he could be ready for the next one. He always had trouble sleeping, especially when he was little. When he was little, he always had nightmares, he was always scared to close his eyes, or his mind would race too fast to allow him any sort of peace. Sometimes, Glassman had resorted to giving him melatonin to take at night, just so he wouldn't lay awake for hours on end.

Shaun's body jolted, at the first burst of electricity. The twitch was violent, but still the monitor was unresponsive.

Glassman closed his eyes tightly, ducking his head and holding it in his hands. He felt like the world was spinning— like everything was coming undone. He was choking on his own inhales— his own sobs. His shoulders heaved as tears rushed down his cheeks. Another shock was delivered, another failed attempt at restarting Shaun's heart. The agony only built in Aaron's chest. He'd thought that he would never feel such a pain again; the last time he'd felt anything close to this was when Maddie had died. When she'd been ripped away from him, he had felt like his entire world had come crashing down. He had been absolutely positive that he'd never have to experience that amount of pain ever again, for the rest of his life. To him, there simply was no way he would be faced with it a second time.

But here it was again. That same suffocating, stabbing panic and grief. That old harrowing feeling of depression already clouding over him and sinking its claws back to where they'd been. His head was shaking, as if denial was enough to take all of it away. As if just by refuting what was happening, he would look up and see Shaun's eyes open again— see that normal look of bemusement that was always on his face whenever Glassman did something he thought was odd. But when he did look at him again, it was only to see another shock rush through his body and fail to do anything else. They were administering drugs, administering compressions, despite the danger of the already-broken ribs. It was doing nothing.

Aaron cringed and started to beg. He didn't know if he was doing it aloud, or just to himself, but the old man quickly crumbled and started to plea. With anyone. He pleaded with Shaun, to stop all of this and just wake up again. He pleaded with the ambulance team, to somehow drag him back to the life, despite all the blood loss and shock and trauma he'd sustained. He even pleaded with God, begging him not to do this again. He couldn't do this again. He couldn't have only memories again— those weren't enough. He couldn't wake up and be hit with the realization every single morning that he wouldn't see Shaun walking down the hall, or get to talk to him, or see him smile. He couldn't swallow that every day like he was already forced to do with Maddie.

He couldn't live and know in the back of his mind, ever-present, that Shaun hadn't.

He couldn't live if Shaun died now, and the last thing Glassman had of him was their last conversation.

Already, it was stuck playing in the back of his mind. Already, it was haunting him, and he knew without a doubt it would only get worse and build. If Shaun died now, every day he would hear the absolute agony that had been choking his voice on the other end, making it nearly impossible for him to get out more than a single syllable at a time. He would hear the sobs that had underlaid every word, and he would hear Shaun's hitched gasps as he fought to take in air. He'd hear the fear that had trembled there. He would hear the ear-shattering silence that had swallowed everything else after the call had been dropped.

He should have driven faster. He should have rushed into the bus the second he arrived. He should have driven him home from Saint Bonaventure. He should have eaten breakfast with him this morning, even if it wasn't a Monday. He should have told him he did a good job with the difficult patients he'd had during his shift, or he should have told him how proud of him he was in general. He should have given him a hug on his way out, providing he allowed him to. He should have told him he loved him. He should have done anything other than what he actually had. Maybe he could have saved him— maybe things could have been different.

Minutes were dragging by, as the ambulance careened for the nearest hospital. And in those minutes, Shaun's heart still could not manage to kick back into gear. He was dead. In full, physical terms, Shaun Murphy had died, and resuscitation attempts were proving futile. Those in the ambulance were pulling out every stop, refusing to give up on him. Glassman fell back, going numb as shock started to settle over him. He dropped his arms and stared ahead, his expression becoming mournful now, and raw with pain. Like he'd taken every ounce of agony from Shaun and shouldered himself, rather than just wishing it could be the case.

He remembered Shaun's voice, choked and sorrowful. 'Has he gone to heaven?'

'Yeah; sure, sure, sure he has. Um—'

Immediately, a harsh and grating objection, sobs choking every single syllable. 'No, I don't him to go to heaven, I want him to be here!'

His expression crumbled. His chest ripped with unimaginable pain, that made it impossible to breathe. He couldn't bear to look at Shaun and yet he couldn't look away. The mask was still over his mouth, fruitlessly giving him oxygen that he could not accept, or do anything with. The paramedics were struggling to revive him in any way possible. Every shock that was applied only caused Shaun's body to twitch and fall still again. There wasn't even a flicker of anything in his face. He was gone.

He was gone.

The words connected, and as soon as they did, Glassman began to break. He shook his head, cringing like someone had stabbed him directly in the abdomen. He might have been trying to say something. He might have tried to call out for Shaun, as if that would do anything. But all that came out was a harsh cry of pain— a keening wail that shook him to the core as he began to fall forward. The other passenger, who had been cradling their arm the entire time, rushed out at once and somehow managed to catch him before he could. Though they were entirely removed from the situation, it sounded like they were trying to help— like they might have been trying to talk to Glassman, and center him again.

But he couldn't hear anything else. He couldn't hear anything over the flatline still screaming where Shaun's heartbeat had been minutes before. He couldn't hear anything but the distorted and jumbled yells from the paramedics as they tried anything that could possibly work. The ambulance sped up, it kept going, but it was useless, there was no point, he was gone, he was gone, there was no use in going anymore, there was no— "Shaun!" The frazzled and grieved bystander helped right Glassman and keep him from collapsing, which he was more than likely to do. They winced as if in pain away from the anguished scream that tore from his throat. "No, no, no, no, don't do this, don't do this, Shaun no, no…" The pleas were soft, and they didn't make any sense. "No, no no, Shaun, no, not you too, not you too, I can't lose you, I can't lose you, no!"

"Nothing!"

"For how long now!?"

"Four minutes and thirty-seven seconds! If it goes for much longer, there's going to be brain damage!"

"How much longer to the hospital!?"

A call from the driver up front: "We're almost there!"

Glassman cried. The last time he had cried this much, in this severity, had been when he'd first stood at Maddie's grave. Then, his sobs had been just as biting as they were now. His pain just as sharp. He'd already lost one child. One child was already ripped away from him, before their time. Was he just destined to see the face that smiled at him every morning paled and slack in death? Was he destined to suddenly find himself with only memories of conversations, that now hurt to look back on? Was he destined to be the reason they died— when he couldn't care for them the way they deserved? Was he destined to come to love someone fiercely, so much so that he would do anything for them without a single hesitation, only to have that torn away?

Was he destined to always wish he'd been the one to die instead? And drag himself through life that way?

"Go again!"

"Clear!"

Yet another shock was administered, the number mounting to a dangerous level in itself. Shaun's body spasmed again. And again, the team hesitated for that split second, to see whether or not anything was done. And there was nothing, still. For that split second, there was no response— he still wasn't there. And for that split second, that fire of pain choked around Glassman again, and again, the only sound was the flatline and his crying, the two noises mingling together in a cause-effect relationship. Again, that disappointment and panic in the air sharpened.

Before there was a tiny burst.

Small. And barely-there. But it was a beep. A twitch of life, from out of nowhere.

Glassman's head snapped up, his teared eyes flying wide as he looked at Shaun and his monitor, to see that the unbroken line had now jerked upwards once more. He tried to choke down on his next sob, but it came bursting out anyway, as yet another beep filled the ambulance. It was slow and delayed in comparison to normal heart rate. But the sinus rhythm was back on the screen where it belonged. Shaun's chest began to rise and fall in feeble rasps again. Glassman's own heart nearly stopped. A fresh wave of tears came to sting at his eyes.

"We got him," the lead breathed, shaking his head and glancing up front, to see how close they were. "He's back, but that saline isn't going to do much for him."

"He can breathe now. O2 rates severely low. Brain damage is still a risk."

"Just keep him breathing, that's all we can do."

Glassman leaned over, his breathing fast and sharp. The person sitting beside him had reluctantly taken away their hand, now that he wasn't at risk of falling. They shifted to allow him room, though they were watching the whole thing with a certain wariness. Glassman's lips were shaking when he reached out towards Shaun. The young doctor still looked like he was just sleeping. He was listless, on the gurney, but at least he wasn't lifeless anymore. He was here— he was here, Glassman just didn't know how for how long. He didn't know if he would be able to make it the rest of the ride to the hospital. He didn't know if he would ever see him open his eyes again. He didn't know if he would hear him talk or laugh. All he knew was that at least for this moment, he'd been tugged back. At least for now, his heart had been tricked into working again.

The older man reached out and held fast to Shaun's hand. It was the ruined one, with the sliced-up palm. He didn't dare hold it tightly, for fear of the glass that was likely still there. Blood had already soaked the temporary dressings that had been hastily applied both there and up his other arm, in the attempt to staunch the bleeding until they could reach the hospital. He could feel it, hot and cold at the same time. But he didn't pull away. He couldn't. He only ducked his head and closed his eyes, reaching over with his other hand to place that one on top. In his shock and fear – pure, white-hot fear at the idea that he still might lose him – his grip was weak. His hands were shaking. But he didn't lose hold of him. He refused to.

If the thought occurred to any of them, neither of the ambulance team members snapped at him to keep away. Maybe it was because it wasn't doing any harm. Maybe it was because it was too close a call to deprive him of this final contact. Maybe it was just because they were so focused on what they were doing, they didn't notice. But they didn't even glance at the man as he leaned forward and ducked his head down low. As he cried quietly under his breath, his hands wrapped fast around Shaun's bloody one. He listened to each and every heartbeat that came. Every pause that stretched a bit longer than the others, he stiffened and felt that same hot rush of panic, until the other one came. Until he knew he was still there with him.

Glassman shifted, so that he could still hold Shaun's hand, but place his fingers down against his wrist. So he could feel the weak pulse that was there, barely anything more than the tiniest of twitches. The hand that rested on the very top squeezed more. And he sat like that, his eyes closed tightly as he listened to and felt for the young man's pulse, and begged God to reconsider, and let him stay. It was the only thing he could think of to do.

At one point, he thought he felt the tiniest of twitches from Shaun. He thought he felt his fingers curl downwards just slightly, to wrap just the tiniest bit around his hand.

But it was most likely nothing more than wishful thinking.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

You know what really capped off a long, hard, irritating, never-ending twenty-hour shift? Being called right back into work as soon as you got home. Claire had been shutting off her car and opening the door when she'd received the call that they were needed back at Saint Bonaventure for an emergency that was bigger than the staff currently at hand. Apparently, there had been this huge accident, thanks to the awful weather. In hindsight, it wasn't a total shock to hear. And she knew that it was kind of the whole shtick of being a doctor that some shifts were just twenty-four hours and up. She'd just really hoped that this shift wouldn't be one of them.

She'd been furious. But she'd swallowed back her frustration, and she'd just kicked her car back into gear, to book it back. She'd gone as fast as she could, edging over the speed limit— she'd crossed her fingers that any nearby police would have their hands a little full at the moment with whatever mess was now blocking up the intersection she usually took to get to work. She must have been right, because at one point she'd been going fifteen over, yet she'd made it back all the same without a ticket in her hand.

By the time she was back and ready for action, rushing into the emergency room, everyone else was already there. And by everyone, she really did mean everyone. The whole team was rushing around, like they'd never even left in the first place. She saw Jared handling a teenager on the younger side— it looked like he was popping her shoulder back into place. Morgan had been stitching up a minor gash on the back of someone's arm…it didn't quite look like she was doling out the most comforting of reassurances, whenever he flinched away from her. Park had just finished up with his patient, it seemed; he'd been reaching out to give a little boy with a new cast a high-five. Doctor Melendez had been tending to another male patient; from where she'd been standing, she hadn't really been able to see what he was doing. Shaun was around here somewhere, she'd figured— it was so hectic and chaotic, just like the last time something like this had happened. He was lost in all the activity.

She'd been about to try and offer her help somewhere, when Doctor Lim had called out to her. "Browne!" She'd turned to see her with a woman with a nasty leg wound. The patient was unconscious. Claire had rushed over the moment she'd been called, already looking down to survey the injury so that she could help. The woman's leg had a nasty gash— it was practically ripped open, and yet the bleeding wasn't nearly as much as it should have been, given the severity of the wound. At first, Claire had thought it was just because she had already lost so much blood. That, or Doctor Lim had stopped the bleeding herself.

But her eyes had gotten caught on something else, and that was what had made her stop prematurely. Right underneath her hip, just above where the injury began, a bloodied jacket was tied in a tight knot, to cut off her circulation and staunch as much bleeding as possible. Given how much of a mess her leg was, the pressure explained why the woman was still alive to have gotten to the ER in the first place without bleeding out on the way. A blessing, but…weird. Lim had been trying to get her attention, but for that second, she was sidetracked. Claire's eyes had stuck on the coat, instead; her mind went a little blank. Her forehead had creased, as she'd opened her mouth to say something her mind wasn't even really putting together.

For some reason, she'd thought it looked a little familiar. And a little too…not what that woman would be wearing...

But a yell had snapped her out of it all. "Browne!" She'd jerked, her head snapping up at once. She'd shaken her head as if to clear it, and she'd started to rush the rest of the way and close the distance, so that she could possibly help. But as she started over, Lim had just shaken her head. "Park is going to help me," she'd said, and Claire had turned in just enough time to see him leaving the little boy to make for them. "You're on glass management," she'd barked, and Claire had frowned, in trace confusion.

She'd figured out what that meant, though. And that led her to here. While everyone else was rushing back and forth, this way and that with life-threatening, fast-paced situations…she was on 'glass management.' Apparently, it had its own title and everything. She was with all the people who had bits of glass or shrapnel in their skin that were well enough to wait for her to get to them. She would pick out the pieces gingerly, with an extreme amount of care, and she would disinfect the wounds left behind, and stitch them up, or take whatever other measures were needed. She would get done with one, and then go to the waiting room to pick up another, and so on and so forth. A pretty straightforward routine.

It would have been the simplest thing in the world, but she was put in charge of the entire operation, so everyone else could focus on the bigger, more pressing issues. And there were quite a lot of people who needed such assistance. The only difficult part of the whole thing was keeping it going in a timely manner, despite patients' complaints or jerks away, both of which just made it all more difficult and painful for them. And more irritating to her. She was running on fumes – had been running on fumes for hours, even before her shift ended – so her polite smile was a little worn down by now. She tried her best, despite it.

She hated to admit it, but maybe it was a good thing she'd been given such a low-ranking job, in the grand scheme of things. Her entire body was dragging with exhaustion, and she could hardly keep her eyes open as she gently extracted glass from arms or necks or legs. She didn't envy Jared or Morgan or anyone else. She caught sight of them every so often, as she worked. Jared rushing to get an ultrasound, Morgan meeting a new gurney rushing through the double doors. She'd seen Alex with Doctor Lim making for OR 3 to fix that patient's leg. There were only so many actually critical patients, as well— putting too many doctors on a case that only required one was more of a nuisance than anything else. She served better this way. She was efficient, and she was clearing out the people they didn't need to worry over.

It only occurred to her about twenty or so minutes into all of this…that she hadn't seen Shaun. Not once.

He wasn't running around with everyone else. He wasn't surveying the area with that thoughtful look he always had on his face. He wasn't butting in to tell her she was doing something wrong, or that there was a way for her to do it better. He wasn't driving Melendez up the wall. He just…wasn't there. Or at least…she thought he wasn't. It took a while for the realization to occur to her, but once it did, it lodged in her brain fast and stuck. As she cleansed and closed wounds – some of them only needing five stitches, some needing twenty – she found herself unable to refrain from looking up and scanning the room quickly, trying to catch a glimpse of her friend. Trying to pick him out of the mess that was all around.

She couldn't.

"You're all done," she smiled at the young girl once she finished tending to her hand. It had a particularly deep cut along the palm, but it was nothing she couldn't fix. The girl smiled a little bit, but it came out as more of a grimace. Claire just grinned more to compensate. "Don't get it wet," she said, repeating the instructions for about the millionth time that night. By now it just came out with no thought or mind at all. Her brain was pretty mush at the moment. She needed some coffee. "And come back in five to seven days, we can get those out for you."

The girl nodded, and as soon as she did, Claire turned and searched the room. She'd have another patient to get to, no doubt. But for a moment she took a breather and looked for someone else instead. She looked for Melendez, and eventually her eyes found home. He was discussing something with one of the nurses. Efficient as Saint Bonaventure was, it wasn't as panicked as it had been when Claire had first stepped over the threshold. It was by no means calm, yet. But it was getting closer to that, at least. So she figured her question wouldn't be taken as badly now as it would have been before.

She took in a quick breath and marched forward. "Doctor Melendez?" she called out, and he immediately turned, raising his eyebrows. He looked as exhausted as she was. But he was still there. Still working, still doing the best he could, like they all were. Well, like almost everyone was… She cleared her throat, her brows knitting together as she glanced around again. "Is Shaun here?" she asked hesitantly. Melendez straightened, and she rushed to add: "I haven't seen him at all, I don't know if you assigned him to a surgery…? I could…use some help— there's a lot of overflow patients in need of stitches." That was a bluff of course, because she was pretty sure she had a handle on it all. But she didn't really like the look on her teacher's face.

She also didn't like the way he sounded when he spoke. "He's not here?" he demanded. Claire's lips pressed together a little tighter. He scowled, looking around himself, but coming up just as empty as she had. "I called him in, he was supposed to report back like everyone else." Melendez went first to anger— it wasn't all that surprising. But at the affirmation their teacher hadn't even seen him…she felt her chest tighten. It wasn't like Shaun to ignore work. He'd only done it once, and it had been very clear that he'd learned his lesson. And besides, usually he was the first of them to leap for more responsibility. An emergency situation like this? It didn't matter if Shaun had been awake for twenty hours, or seventy-five, he would be pushing people aside to get here.

Claire weakened. She found it was more for her sake than Shaun's when she offered: "Maybe…Andrews assigned him somewhere? Or Doctor Lim?"

Melendez let out an angry huff, shaking his head. He pulled out his phone, and Claire tried to envision the angry text he was probably hammering out to him then. She imagined caps were involved. A lot of exclamation points. Maybe the middle finger emoji, but that seemed more like something Jared would send him. Her attending pressed send and waited a second, staring expectantly at the screen. Before he rolled his eyes and shook his head, pocketing the device with a shrug. "For his sake, he'd better be here somewhere, or he'd better have a damn good excuse."

"It's not like him." Claire found herself standing up for him as second nature. But she couldn't ignore the uneasy feeling that was only getting worse in the pit of her stomach. She hesitated, before she shook her head. "I'm sure he's around here somewhere, I just wondered if you knew. He's probably just busy doing something else. He—"

"Don't cover for another resident's mistake," Melendez growled dryly. She grimaced and ducked her head a bit. "We're all tired, we're all overworked— it's part of the job. If he thinks he can ignore a call and just go to bed without any consequences…" He huffed again, giving up. "Just go back to your patients," he sighed, turning and heading off to the do the same. "We don't have time to be worried about someone who can't be bothered to be here." By the time he walked away, he was practically oozing rage. Half of the reason he was so quick to become so, was probably just because of how long they had been working. Shaun could very well…be somewhere around here…just off doing something separate from everyone else…

She glanced over her shoulder and bit down on her lower lip. She was never one to ignore Melendez's direct orders, but she figured two more minutes wouldn't make much of a difference for her patients. She looked through the emergency room one last time, dodging between people and making sure he wasn't just hidden from view somewhere. When she came up empty, she got out her phone. The anxiety pressing on her chest was getting heavier; she couldn't discern why this was getting to her so much. Again, that barely-there thought kept hopping out of her grip as soon as her fingers began to wrap around it. She quickly found his number in her phone and texted him.

'Shaun, you're somewhere around here, right? You came back in with us?'

She waited, pursing her lips. Her eyes narrowed a bit when her message stood in limbo. The tiny 'delivered' notification never showed underneath. She paused, waiting to see if he'd respond anyway. When nothing came, she took in a quicker breath, and resorted to just calling him. It would be easier, and Shaun preferred talking on the phone anyway. That way, there was no risk of any emojis. But once she clicked his name and raised the phone to her ear, she didn't even hear it ring. Instead, she was sent straight to voicemail.

"Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system…"

Shaun's phone was…off? That, or he'd blocked her, and she was pretty sure that if he was blocking people now, the hierarchy would go Morgan, Park, Jared, and then her. She tucked her mobile away and stood there for a moment, looking around aimlessly. Her worry was growing more apparent. She pinpointed Jared, who had pulled over to the station in the middle to take a swig of coffee. He looked like he was a dog that should have been put down about a year ago and was on its very last legs. Like at any second, he could just collapse and that would be that. She wondered if she looked the same.

She veered over to him, and he jumped a little when he snapped back to attention. "Jared!" He looked at her blearily, reaching up to rub his eyes. She glanced around at the passing doctors and nurses and lowered her voice a bit more once she got closer. "You've seen Shaun, right?" she asked. He frowned and straightened a little bit. He looked like he was surprised at the question— like he hadn't even recognized the fact their friend was gone. She wouldn't blame him; it had taken her ages to do the same. They were all just so tired. But now that it was in her head, she couldn't get it out. "He came back in? He's just off doing something else?"

Jared set his coffee down. He stood up tall and scanned the area. He shrugged one shoulder. "I haven't seen him," he replied, and Claire's heart sank. "I never left, either— I stopped to grab something quick to eat…I had so much work to do that dinner went out the window." He stifled a yawn, before he shrugged that same way again. "So I was the first one in the emergency room. I saw Morgan and Alex come in. Not Shaun, though." Rousing enough out of his exhaustion to notice, Jared frowned when he saw how distraught Claire was. "But…to be fair, I didn't see you come in either," he tried to amend. She eyed him skeptically. "Once everything started I wasn't really paying attention. I can barely keep focused enough on what I'm doing now, I wasn't keeping an eye out for him."

"His phone is off," Claire mumbled weakly. "My text didn't get through to him, and when I tried to call it just went straight to voicemail."

Jared took another drink. He was practically chugging the coffee, to try and stay awake. "Maybe he blocked you," he added, obviously joking. She scowled. "I'm just saying, you're awfully annoying, Claire. It's about time someone broke it to you. And if we're being honest, the news was always bound to come from Shaun."

"I'm serious, Jared!" she snapped. "It's not like him to ignore work, and it's definitely not like him to have his phone off. He always checks his phone, all the time. He's too worried he'll miss something important to not look at it."

"Look, maybe it died, maybe he just fell asleep, maybe he's here somewhere!" Jared blustered. "I don't know what you want me to do about it. I just told you what I know." She said nothing, only eyeing him sourly. He took a moment and dialed himself back, guilty for the small lapse in temper. "Sorry. You're right. I agree that it isn't like him, so he probably is around. You know him— he gets some idea in his mind and it leads him halfway across the hospital; then he comes back with the right answer nobody would have thought of themselves in a million years. He's like the Indiana Jones of the hospital. I think. I've never seen an Indiana Jones movie." She wilted, looking off to the side, clearly unpersuaded. He softened. "You're probably worrying over nothing, Claire. He'll pop up in two seconds and you're going to wish he stayed lost." He was only half-teasing with this one.

She said nothing. She just bit down on her lower lip again, as her eyes picked through the mess once more. She'd done it more than enough times to know Shaun wouldn't be there. It was all just other doctors on staff, and nurses there to assist, trying to do their best for the people in their care. There weren't as many pressing cases— those had been dealt with first, given their severity. Now it was mostly the people that weren't in any danger of dying, just in danger of suffering more pain. People with broken arms or broken legs, people with cuts, or whiplash.

But this time, when Claire looked at everything and took it all in, it finally occurred to her for the very first time. Her tired brain finally made the connection, and she lashed out to clamp down tight on Jared's arm. He was in the middle of drinking his coffee again; she moved so fast and grabbed him so hard that he nearly spilled it everywhere. "The accident!" Her words were practically choked out. Jared only stared at her, incredulous. "It involved a bus, right? Or two? You were here when it first happened, wasn't that what it was?" It had been included in the message that had called her back, she figured. But she'd mostly skimmed after she realized she had to go all the way back again. Disappointment tended to make you less rational.

He frowned. His expression was slowly becoming more off-put. His words were slower to come. "Yeah, there were…two busses, and a number of cars. It was a huge mess, but…" He shook his head, trying to wave it off. "But what are the odds that Shaun was in one of them?" he demanded. "And besides, they've pretty much cleared the scene of the accident by this point. Less and less people are coming through. Those who are have minimal injuries. So even if he was involved…he can't be too badly hurt."

"But he was in it, wasn't he?" Her voice was tense now— her worry and fear growing more and more the surer of it she became. "Do you know the busses that were hit? If either of them was his? It makes sense; he would have been on his way home, just like we were. Or— I was." She wasn't even sure if she knew what bus he had to catch to get home. If she didn't know, she doubted Jared would. She turned, searching again for Melendez. "He could have been in the crash, he could be hurt! It would explain why he didn't come here, why his phone is off, maybe it broke!"

"Claire, calm down." Jared had forgotten his coffee entirely, now. He was fully awake now, and it wasn't because of the caffeine. "He's probably fine! There's no sense in getting worked up over a situation you don't even know about yet. He could still be here somewhere— he could be at home!"

She looked at him quickly, and it didn't take a lot to see that he didn't believe either of those were true. "We have to tell Melendez," she announced. "He thinks he's just skipping, but he could be hurt, he could be—!" She stiffened. Her eyes widened a little bit. She turned back to her friend, nearly stuttering over her words. "The jacket!" It practically fell out of her mouth. Jared stared at her blankly. "There was— there was a patient earlier, Doctor Lim was taking her into surgery to fix her leg. It was practically ripped open. One of the only reasons she probably didn't bleed out on the way over was because there was a jacket tied around her leg right above it. I thought it looked familiar when I first saw it, but I couldn't tell why— but it was his jacket, Jared! It was Shaun's jacket, it was tied around that woman's leg!"

"Okay," Jared reasoned. The two of them were very clearly loitering now, with no intents to get back to work. From across the room, this caught Melendez's attention. He looked at his two residents with undisguised frustration and anger – he was already down one lazy resident and now two others were catching the bug? – and he started over towards them. Neither of them noticed, however. Jared's forehead was creasing. "Okay, so…it might have been his jacket. But it also might not have. He's not Cinderella, Claire, other people could have that jacket."

"I recognized it, he wears it all the time. It was the jacket he was wearing that first day he came here," Claire rejected immediately.

Jared tilted his head to the side. He grimaced and sighed underneath his breath. She watched as he reached up to rub at his forehead. "Okay…well, even if it was his jacket, that just means he's fine," he exhaled, after a second. Claire only eyed him warily in silence. "Right? You know Shaun— it makes total sense that he would just immediately start helping people any way he could. He's probably still down by the action, then, helping paramedics with whoever is left. Right?"

She frowned but found that she couldn't really argue. The picture certainly did fit. Shaun would help anyone, if he could. If he was in the crash, she could see him rushing back and forth to help who was there. After all, with that whole situation at the food market, he'd saved the life of the shooter. It was thanks to him the man was still alive by the time he reached the hospital. If he would help a Nazi that had a gun pointed at him five minutes prior, he would certainly be knee-deep in these injured passengers. She started to open her mouth to say something, still feeling somehow on-edge. When Melendez interrupted them.

"Hey!" They both jumped at the call, turning to their attending with alarm. "Tweedledee, Tweedledum— this isn't the time for gossiping or whatever it is you're doing over here, you need to get back to work! We still have a lot of people to take care of, and you're not helping by just standing here! I'm already down a resident who couldn't be bothered to show up, don't—"

"We think Shaun was in the accident," Claire burst out, accidentally interrupting.

She winced, anticipating a quick retort back. She was at least expecting something like 'Well we still have a job to do, blah blah blah.' But once the words fell into the air between them, there was a noticeable shift in their teacher. His angry expression lingered for only a heartbeat before it fell. He straightened up and his shoulders drooped; he looked at them like he suddenly didn't speak English. The confusion on his face was enough to almost make it seem like he didn't. When he spoke, his voice was softer, and every ounce of tired irritation that had been filling it to the brim up until this point was drained entirely. Like none of it had even been there in the first place. "What?" was all he managed to get out.

"He might have been in one of the busses," Claire pressed, Jared looking warily between them. Now all three of them were loitering. But suddenly, it didn't seem to matter. "He would have been on his way home, just like all of us were. The timing matches up perfectly." Melendez was blinking fast. The shock on his face was slowly decaying into worry, though as soon as he realized that that was the case, he would probably wipe it back into apathy. "I saw a woman earlier that had been moved into surgery; she had a makeshift tourniquet around her leg— it was Shaun's jacket, I know it was." She shook her head, her worry at full-force now and beginning to burn at her skin. "He was in the accident, he was somewhere in there."

Melendez weakened just the smallest bit, glancing around at the injured patients at their mercy. "Have you gotten ahold of him? Do you know for sure?" he hedged.

"I tried calling him, but it went straight to voicemail," she replied.

"He's probably fine," Jared interjected, remaining hopeful. Someone had to— usually Shaun was the one to chirp out what their silver lining was. Since he was not here to do so, the task had to be taken up by someone else. "Listen, I'd put down fifty dollars that if he was involved in this crash, then he's just out there right now practically forcing his help on every person within a mile radius; it's what he does best."

Melendez looked back at the pair, Claire worried, and Jared cautiously optimistic. There wasn't a very good balance in between. He was silent for a long moment. He just looked thoughtful, and if Claire was being generous, and she usually pretty was, he looked concerned, too. It wasn't written all over his face like it was hers, but it was there all the same. Eventually, he started to speak, picking his words carefully. "We have to treat the people that are here." He was staring straight ahead, nodding a little bit to himself. "If Shaun was involved, he'll come back here eventually. The ambulances brought all their priority criticals in first— at this point, there shouldn't be anyone left in need of immediate medical attention. So it can't be too much longer before he rides back with one of them. He could do more good here than out there, by now…I think he knows that."

Claire was still doubtful. But, straining, she tried to focus on that one detail that she knew to be true. In serious accidents such as these, ambulances had their own triage. They rushed those who needed it most to the hospital first and went down the line accordingly. That was always true— always a constant. So Shaun wasn't one of those people. If he had been in serious danger, like the woman with the torn leg, then he would have been among the first to be shepherded here. Unless they were splitting the load with another hospital, in which case he could be there, instead. The thought made her sick, so she tried not to linger on it too much.

Melendez looked at her steadily, and it roused her out of her stupor. "Go back to patching people up," he encouraged. "We need to stay focused on what we have here." She nodded, and he turned to Jared, who took another last chug of his coffee. "Kalu, I could use your help— there's a young girl that's got a head injury that could be serious, we have to get an MRI to make sure we know what it is we're dealing with."

And just like that, they turned and separated, to go back to work. Claire's heart ached to abandon the thought of her friend when she still couldn't be sure whether or not he was okay. She knew walking away that she wouldn't be able to shake it. Neither would Jared, by the look on his face. But Melendez was right; there was no use in worrying about something they had no power over at the moment. If Shaun was in the crash – which Claire had no doubt in her mind now that he was – maybe he was among the lucky ones and just wasn't hurt that badly. Maybe Jared was right, and he was just rushing around right now doling out his help where it was needed.

He'd show up eventually. And Claire would shove him as hard as she could, as retribution for making her worry so much.

The thought was enough to make her smile and feel the tiniest bit better. It wasn't much, but it was all she had to go off of. She glanced over her shoulder one last time, towards where Melendez and Jared had been retreating. But she halted when she realized that they weren't walking anymore. They had stopped, and they were both looking in the same direction— out towards the double doors that led to the ambulance station. Claire stiffened. She picked up on the high-pitched wailing of another ambulance. It could be bringing in anyone. There were less and less arriving. She had gone deaf to the sirens after a while— sensory adaption had set in. She'd had other things to focus on, so she'd put them all out of her mind.

Now, she immediately heard it.

Without thinking, she spun back around and started back to them. Like she said— it could be anyone. Absolutely anyone. By no means did it have to be—

Melendez and Jared broke into a sprint for the ambulance station. They took off at the same time, with the same urgency. Claire's heart immediately leapt up to lodge hard in her throat, and she quickened her pace into a run as well. She tried to ignore the biting panic that was fast to burn through her. She tried to remember the fact as Jared had presented them. He was fine. He was most likely just at the site, helping there, if he was even there at all. He could be in this ambulance, hovering over someone he'd assisted in helping out of the wreckage. He could be somewhere in this hospital, dashing around right under their noses. He could be home, fast asleep and completely oblivious to everything that was happening. He could be—

He was being unloaded.

The moment she recognized who it was on the stretcher, Claire's quick strides dissolved into shocked staggers. Someone may as well have rushed up to her and delivered the hardest punch they could manage directly into her stomach. The wind was knocked completely out of her— her head spun, as she forced herself to keep rushing up after the other two. Shaun wasn't in the ambulance helping, he was in the ambulance being transported here. Not a doctor, but a patient. A critical one. The moment Claire was skidding to a stop beside Melendez and she could actually see him, she nearly capsized.

Those bringing him in were high-strung and yelling. They had a right to be. There was blood everywhere— his skin was ghostly white, like paper. The attempts at staunching it appeared unsuccessful; the temporary dressings looked like they would be wet to the touch. The one in charge was talking, getting Shaun on the ground and ushering him inside. "…barely breathing, he went into cardiac arrest on the way— his heart stopped for about five minutes, could have brain damage linked to his low oxygen levels, he's got pneumothorax and—" She stopped listening.

She was planning to keep pace with them the entire way into the hospital. She planned on staying with her friend— not leaving his side. But movement at the corner of her eye ripped her elsewhere, and she found her eyes tearing almost unwillingly away from Shaun's unconscious form. She looked back at the ambulance to see that there were two people still left to come out of it. One was slinking down to the ground and walking by themselves— they were holding their arm gingerly, but they were walking fine. Minor injury— a twist, a fracture, something tiny. Unimportant, at the moment. The main reason she stopped was the other person, who still had yet to move.

Doctor Glassman was sitting on the bench of the emergency vehicle, still as a statue. He wasn't making a move to get out at all. He looked frozen there…just staring vacantly. Like he wasn't seeing anything. Claire glanced back at Melendez and Jared where they were running in with Shaun. Her heart tore, and she made a move to just turn and keep running after. But reluctantly she spun around to go the other way instead. She ran back to Glassman, already searching his face for answers even before she stopped. "Doctor Glassman!" Her voice came out a mess— it was shaky and hitched, and she couldn't stomp down her panic as much as she likely had to. She reached up, grabbing onto his arm. "Doctor Glassman! What happened!?"

He barely roused. At the shout of his name he did blink— slowly, and like he wasn't at all sure it was even his. Once she touched him, he started to move as if to lock their eyes. But his ended up catching elsewhere. They stopped instead on his hands, and when they did, a noise somewhere between a gasp and a sob wrenched its way out of his mouth. Claire looked down too, and she inhaled sharply, feeling herself go stiff as a board. They were covered in blood. Not his. The garish sight did its job to bring him out of his shock, but once he did, he quickly began to fall apart. Claire watched in something akin to horror as the president of her hospital began to hyperventilate and keen. Tears rushed forward to sting her own eyes as she watched him twist towards her, still fixated on his bloodied hands. He didn't look up, but he did struggle to form words. His voice was even shakier than hers. It was practically shattered. Just fragments that were too broken to put back together.

"He— he called me," he sobbed, Claire frozen where she stood. "He called me, he wanted help, he was trying to ask for help, I couldn't give him help, I wasn't thinking, I could have helped him, why didn't anybody help him?" The sentence was rambling, never-ending, and almost too quick to even understand. Claire's throat began to feel like someone had shoved an iron down it. Her tears welled faster. "He— he was on the bus, he was just trying to go home, he was just trying to— his heart is overworked, he can't survive another resuscitation, he—"

"Doctor Glassman," she pleaded, willing him to snap out of it. He clamped his mouth shut, but he still stared down at his hands, heartbroken. She bent down low so he was forced to meet her eyes. "We have to go," she pushed, trying to make her voice as hard as she possibly could. But still, tremors betrayed her. "We have to go help Shaun." The words were forceful and separated in their importance, and thick in her emotion. She spoke slower, so he would understand in his jarred state, but she was grabbing onto his wrists and beginning to pull him out from the car as another form of encouragement. "He's here," she went on to point out. "He made it here— now we have to take care of him."

This did the trick. Glassman tore his gaze away from his palms, looking up at her fully now. At first, she tried to smile. It was second nature— you smile at patients who were in distress to reassure them that everything would be okay. That was one of the first things they taught you in medical school: never let anybody understand just how bad a situation might be. But it took only half a second to realize that the feat was impossible. The smile died; her lips shook too much to keep it in place. Instead, her panic and apprehension were written there like an open book. They may as well have been mirrors for one another. And for a moment that felt like years – though it couldn't have been more than two seconds – the pair stared at one another, wrapped in the same exact fear and grief. Hearts hammering and eyes watering in the shock and dread of losing someone important.

Glassman broke the reverie. Like he was waking up from a dream, his eyes flickered to the doors of the hospital, long since shut. And softly, his words barely anything at all, he rasped: "His blood type, they— they need his blood type."

She nodded once. Given how much blood he'd lost, they were likely already loading him with O negative. But bringing that up would be pointless, and if it was the thing that got him to come back into reality and be fine enough on his own, she would take it. She waited only long enough to see Glassman stumble out of the ambulance and start forward, so she could make sure that he was capable of walking. He was okay— there was no risk of harm. So, she turned on her toe and took off inside, sprinting back the way that Jared and Melendez had disappeared. Just trusting that Glassman would do the same and follow her without any complications.

The ER had just been beginning to settle down. The critical patients were cleared— either in surgery, or being taken care of on the proper unit. All that was left were the smaller cases. The broken arms, the twisted ankles, the stitches. There had been tension in the air, but it was the normal kind of tension: the tension of knowing there were jobs to do but that it was all being taken care of. Now, running back in, the atmosphere practically swamped Claire and wrung her around the throat. It was difficult to breathe around it.

The first thing she saw once she rushed back in was Melendez's expression.

He was panicked.

He looked scared.

Melendez never looked scared.

"Tachycardia, hypotensive— respiratory rate is forty-seven, we have got to get this bleeding to stop! Someone get an OR open! I don't care if you have to rip someone out of one, he's in hypovolemic shock! Kalu, where's that epinephrine!?" Jared was already rushing back by the call. He was doing a better job than Claire was at keeping himself in check. But she could see that underneath the initial layer of apathy and focus he was forcing on his face, was the same burning shock and fear she felt. Shaun was supposed to be standing right by them. He was supposed to be running around just like they were, matching them stride for stride. Instead, he was bleeding out in front of them. Instead of his voice piping up to throw out something helpful, the only sound that came from him was his rapid and failing heartbeat.

Claire's breathing was punctured and fast once she got met them again.

She stared down at her friend, pale and bloody and dead to everything.

Dead— his heart had stopped for more than four minutes. He'd been dead for more than four minutes.

If his heart stopped again, it would be even more difficult to restart it. Maybe not impossible, but it would be even harder on his body. It might not work. If it did, there could be severe complications. If there weren't already some from the time he had gone without oxygen already. Her stomach was in knots, and she felt like she was going to be sick, but she closed her eyes and struggled to collect herself. She opened them again and looked at his arm. Huge shards of glass were embedded into his skin, multiple open wounds around them leading to the conclusion that there had once been more. "Those are keeping in some of the blood, but there could be shards broken off elsewhere in the others," she gasped out.

"We already have an intravenous line going of O negative, but it's going to be like putting water through a hose full of holes; we need an OR," Melendez growled. Claire's eyes flickered up to him again, and she faltered as she saw that anger was beginning to sear its way forward through his anxiety. His eyes were narrowing into slits as he felt gingerly along Shaun's sides. "We need a chest x-ray." He took his hands away quickly and went down to his leg. "Swelling— he's got internal bleeding, we need an ultrasound to see what we're dealing with— why in the world wasn't he brought in first!?" The way he yelled this last part made it seem like he hadn't meant to. He bit back on it and shook his head fast, but it was already out.

Claire's eyes stung, and she quickly turned to comply. To get the ultrasound, and make herself useful somehow. As she ran, struggling to hold herself together, she heard Shaun's voice ring in her head, bubbly and eager. "Focused assessment with sonography and trauma!" She choked back a hard swallow and ran faster. Morgan was working on sewing a slice closed on the side of someone's head. She looked up as Claire rushed past, and the girl's heart squeezed even more when she remembered snickering with Jared over dinner one night, and only laughing harder when Shaun leaned in close and asked her "What's RBF?"

She snagged the ultrasound, and she remembered the last time she'd used it was when a patient had come in complaining of abdominal pain. She'd turned out to be pregnant, and just unaware. She remembered how Shaun had narrowed it down instantly, and how he had tried to hide the smile that wanted to spread wide over his face when the mother was given the first glimpse of her new child. She remembered how just last week they had gone out to dinner together after their shift ended and Shaun had asked if he could sit next to her. How yesterday Jared had asked him whether or not his refrigerator was running, following it up with a gut-busting 'Then you'd better go catch it', to which Shaun calmly announced that he was the unfunniest person he'd ever met. How she and Jared had immediately cracked up, and their friend had once again stifled a wide and ecstatic grin.

She remembered this morning, when he had come in wet with a sullen: "I don't know where my umbrella is."

She remembered smiling at him tonight, as he was heading out. Calling: "See you later, Shaun!"

By the time she got back to Melendez, her eyes were watering too much. She jolted when she felt a tear track down the side of her face. Her attending turned to take it from her just in time to see her reach up and hurriedly wipe it away. He did a small double-take, one that lasted only for about half a second. Avoiding his stare, she just turned and looked down at Shaun, instead. Melendez did the same, his mouth pressing into a tight line. Not wasting any time in his movements, he threw his next words sharp over his shoulder. "Browne, get me Reznick." She stiffened at once. Jared did the same, when Melendez continued with: "Kalu, get me Andrews. You two aren't coming."

Claire was too shocked to speak. Jared took a step forward, though. "I don't—"

But he wasn't having it. "Now!" he all but screamed, and the two immediately flinched away.

Jared looked like he still wanted to argue, but he swallowed it all back and just rushed to page Doctor Andrews. Claire turned and took off back where she'd come from, knowing Morgan would still be in the vicinity. She was boiling over with frustration that she'd been dismissed. Or maybe she was just so tense because she knew it was for good reason. She wanted to be there, though— she needed to be there. Morgan didn't deserve to be called in for him. She didn't care about him. At all.

Though, rationally, Claire would reason later that that was exactly why Melendez was bringing her in.

"Morgan!" she cried. She was on her way to the waiting room, but at her name, the blonde turned, an odd expression on her face. Claire kept running towards her, but wasted no time. The instant they met eyes, she was spouting off. "Shaun was in the bus crash, he should have been brought in with the other criticals, but he wasn't!" She had to reach up and dash away another tear before it could become too obvious. Morgan caught the movement at once, though; her eyebrows pulled together. Still, she doubled back to meet Claire halfway, and then head back with her. Claire was rushing on, her voice panicked and her words rushing together. "He's lost too much blood, he went into cardiac arrest on the way here, he has multiple broken ribs and lacerations from the crash— Melendez is rushing him into surgery, he wants you to scrub in."

"Okay," Morgan returned. And that was all she offered.

Claire blinked fast, taken aback.

Morgan rushed to Melendez's side and quickly began to take in as much as she could on Shaun as they started to rush him away. OR 1 had been prepped and readied, and Doctor Andrews was going to meet them there, according to Jared. Melendez was barking orders this way and that, not even glancing at them. Outcasted, Jared was standing off to the side, merely watching, and Claire staggered over to him, too uncertain to do anything else. Glassman was on his other side, and he didn't even glance at Claire as she joined them. He didn't even blink. His eyes were solely for Shaun as he was taken away, and the look in his eyes was fit to make her stomach clench and heave. He looked drained of hope. He looked exhausted. He wasn't even trying to wipe away the tears streaming down his face.

With the way he was looking at Shaun, it was like he had already died.

Melendez hesitated only long enough to whirl around and jab his finger at the two residents he was leaving behind. "Lim is in charge of you two when she gets back," he barked, leaving no room for questions. Claire grimaced at how tense his voice was. He might have said more, and he might have been clearer and nicer in the first place with his order…if he'd had any time. But he was whirling around the very second the words were out of his mouth. He didn't even wait to see whether or not they had any sort of reaction in the first place. He was out of time, and it was painfully clear.

Morgan was rushing after him, but on impulse, Claire dashed after and grabbed her wrist. "Morgan!"

The blonde whipped around to look at her, anger and indignation shooting off her in waves. "Get off, I don't have time to—!"

"Please help him." The demand was stupid, because Morgan had no other option, in full technical reality. All this was doing was taking up precious time. Claire could regret doing it later, and she would. But now, she acted and spoke before she thought, and it led her to looking at the other with full and obvious desperation. Morgan didn't care about Shaun. That was why she was the best person to help with this surgery. But Claire cared. Jared did. Glassman did. Her voice shook when she pressed softly: "Please do as much as you can for him."

Morgan's reply was swift. "Of course." Claire's shoulders drooped. The blonde's eyes flashed at the reaction, and she yanked her hand back. She was already turning when she shot the other a glare and tacked on: "He's just like any other patient!" And before Claire could say anything in return, if she was even going to say anything in return, she was gone, disappearing down the hall after the others. Claire's chest ached in pain as she leaned out to watch them go. Her face slowly fell. Her desperation ebbed, as well as her panic. Everything did, as she watched them leave, and realized they were alone again.

She just felt empty. And useless.

Jared was first to speak. When she turned to look at him, she could see her own feelings reflected back to her. His voice was quiet and dull when he declared: "There's still a lot to do."

She turned and looked at the people they still had. At the doctors that were still working, and the nurses that were still milling around. Like nothing had changed, and this was just another night in the ER. "Yeah," she murmured, her voice rasping out against her throat. The word was so empty, it could probably hold water. "I need to get back to helping with stitches…" Still, nobody moved. She turned and looked back at Glassman, and her voice was much more strained as she looked down and said: "You should get cleaned up."

Glassman was unresponsive for a heartbeat. He was still staring blankly at the spot where they had disappeared down the hall. At her suggestion, he blinked and looked down at his hands. There was still blood. It was crusting over, staining his skin. He stumbled just a little bit, and Jared reached out fast, in case he needed to catch him. Glassman didn't fall, but he also didn't make a move to get the blood off. He stayed stock-still. Motionless, and frozen. Like he couldn't move.

Softly, his voice nothing more than a croak, he whispered: "I failed him..."

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

"What…here?"

He couldn't hear all of what they were saying. Or maybe he could, but he just didn't understand it. He couldn't make sense of anything. It was all a mess. All a blur. He thought he remembered falling. No— he hadn't fallen, that was something else. That was sometime else, wasn't it? Someone else had fallen, and that had been important. He thought he remembered yelling. People yelled all the time. He hated it when people yelled. He'd always hated it. Or maybe he didn't, maybe that was someone else, too. He didn't know. All he knew was that he was tired. He was so tired, everything was hazing and messing up around him. He couldn't make sense of what was going on. He wanted it to stop.

"Not supposed…here, I…hello?"

He didn't even know who was talking. It might have been him…that would make sense. If this was in his head, and he was just hearing his own uncoordinated thoughts. It was logical. He liked that. Probably. It could be a dream, too— this whole thing could be a dream, and he could just be stuck. Maybe the crash had been a dream. A crash? What kind of crash? Where had that thought come from? And where was it now? It was a brief burst of…of something— was it a burst of coherence, or incoherence? Did it matter? Maybe it did, maybe it didn't. Maybe the fact he couldn't decide was enough of an answer.

"You…back, go…what are…you can't…!"

The voice sounded familiar, in a way. Like he should know who was talking. He tried to recall. He really did try. But every possibility he grabbed fell through his fingers like sand before he could conjure an actual name. He could associate the voice with someone older— someone that he knew for certain cared for him, though sometimes he wondered why. He could associate it with someone beautiful and smart…who always smiled and sometimes laughed in a way that reminded him of bells. He could associate it with someone who would snicker and push at his shoulder, which he didn't particularly like but would tolerate most times. But he could also associate it with someone who was small…who made him sad, in contrast to all the others. He could associate it with that person, too.

"Shaun…try and…I don't want…not…"

Maybe it was somehow all of those people at once. Was that possible? Could that be done?

"Are you listening? I…"

If this was in his head, were there rules?

"Am I dead?" he thought, though he might have spoken it out loud. He wasn't sure. He didn't know if he was standing, or sitting, or laying down. He didn't know if he was awake or if he was asleep. He didn't know what was left and what was right. And he didn't know the details of how he got…wherever here was. Crash…there was a crash. He didn't know what happened after that. Or…it was all coming back to him, but very slowly, and it was fuzzy. Kind of like how everything was now. But when he turned – or maybe he didn't turn – he saw who it was who had been speaking. And their voice suddenly came into focus.

"No. But you're not doing that good a job of helping yourself." Steve was standing a few feet away. He had to look up to see him, now. He'd always had to look up— Shaun had always been a little taller in comparison. But now he had to look up even more. His expression was worried. Very worried— like something was wrong. But what could be wrong? He was here! Immediately, though, his brother soured. "Don't smile!" he snapped. Was he smiling? He felt it a little bit, now that it was pointed out. But he couldn't not smile! He remembered his little brother now— he remembered everything about him, and here he was! Five feet away!

"I missed you. I want to smile."

"You miss me!" he corrected immediately. "You're going to keep missing me, because this isn't how this is going to happen!" He was angry. Someone else had been angry with him, and recently. Or maybe not angry, but someone had definitely yelled at him like this— choked and upset and worn. Glassman. The name hit him like a brick. Glassman had yelled at him like this, when he'd called him on the phone. That was right when he'd woken up. Right after the bus crashed. And once the call had ended, he had… "This isn't supposed to happen for years— you're supposed to be old before I got to see you again!"

"The bus crashed," Shaun recalled. Steve's face fell. He didn't say anything. Shaun continued. "I tried to get out…but I couldn't. It was an accident."

Steve closed his eyes briefly, his expression crumbling in a mixture of sorrow and frustration. He ducked his head and muttered: "It's always an accident…"

Silence existed for a long moment. Maybe it was three seconds…maybe it was three hours. It felt like it could have been either one. It also kind of felt like it didn't matter. "I'm not dead?" Shaun clarified.

"No." Steve met his repetition with one of his own.

"Then this is a dream," he surmised. "You're not my brother."

Steve blinked. He didn't have a reply for that one. He did speak up, though; it just wasn't what he wanted to hear. "You moved too much. You were hurt. Shaun— you should have known not to do all of that. You should have stopped, you could have gotten help, you could have made it out."

"I'm a doctor," Shaun returned evenly. "I…had a duty to those people."

"And you didn't have one to yourself?"

"They were more important."

"Why?" Steve demanded. "You're important to Glassman. And Claire. And Jared. And me." His eyes were raw with pain as he looked up at him. "So why weren't you important to yourself?"

Shaun wished he could look away from him. "You're my subconscious," he rejected. "You're not Steve."

Still, Steve stayed where he was. Shaun wanted him to leave. Seeing him there, right in front of him, and responding accordingly…he sounded exactly like Shaun remembered. He looked exactly the same— he was in the same outfit he had worn that day they'd gone to play hide-and-seek. His hair was the same length, not long like Evan's had been. And he looked real. Like if Shaun reached out to touch him, he would be solid, and tangible. It made him cry. Or…it made him feel like he wanted to cry. That same suffocating, pressing feeling he always got when he remembered his brother. Or when he tried to save Evan and he had failed. He didn't know if he actually was crying. He just knew he wished he was.

Maybe Steve recognized this, because his expression grew sadder. "You have to go back, Shaun," he pleaded, and there was a certain level of desperation to his voice. "You have to go back— you can't stay here. You can't give up. You still have a lot more to do. I promise. You're not even close to being done."

"I'm stuck," Shaun argued. "Like I was stuck in the bus. I can't move."

"You can't think like that. You have to keep trying. You thought like that in the bus— you were ready to give up then, but you got back up. You kept getting back up. So you can't stop now. Not when you've come all this way." His voice brightened suddenly, and changed tones. Like his emotions were flipping upside down, as he declared: "You're the strongest person I know, Shaun!" He smiled, and then it was different, and Shaun was smaller, and they were nose-to-nose, and Steve was hanging upside down from the tree, and it was bright and warm. They lingered there like that, until it went back with just as little warning— until they were a distance apart again, and Steve was back to looking up at him, overcome with that tense sorrow. It all happened in less than a second, and at the same time, it happened much too slowly.

"I don't know what's happening," Shaun whispered. Steve stared at him sadly. Like he did whenever Shaun used to hole himself up in his room to hide from their father. He could almost hear it now— like an echoing of something far away, down a long corridor. Apparently conjured just by mere thought. The sound of crying and muffled whimpers, being extinguished by forced chirps of happiness from his little brother. It reached his ears, and Shaun felt cold. "I don't know what's happening to me," he rasped, looking at Steve like he expected answers to be there.

"Fight it," Steve begged. "You just have to fight it, Shaun."

"I…" He tried to finish his thought, but he couldn't. The rationality he had managed to find and grab hold of was being yanked away from him again, and he felt dizzy. Confused. He felt like he wanted to lay down, if he wasn't already. Colors were fuzzing away into incoherence…they were bleeding— bleeding everywhere. Making no sense. Steve moved, maybe to run away, maybe to run towards him, he couldn't even tell. He could see his brother's mouth moving quickly— like he was rushing through something— like he was yelling. But that was fading, too. Shaun tried to do something. He tried to dig in his heels, he tried to cling to the only awareness he had, which was his little brother. But that was leaving, too. He couldn't do anything to stop it.

He was drowning.

"Shaun! You…stop, you can't…don't…have…please!"

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

It was 2:00 in the morning. Claire was more than exhausted. She was in a haze now, and just letting her body take over and go through the motions. She sewed injuries and directed families and set broken bones. She did as her attending asked, and she stayed as focused as possible on what was in front of her. It was difficult, to say the least. She kept it all bottled back as best she could. As far out of her mind as it would go. She didn't speak unless it was for the required patient-doctor back-and-forth, and even then, she was much more detached than she usually was. Every so often she would catch Jared's eye to see that he was the same. He wore the same exact expression she was, and he dragged with the same emptiness.

They went through everyone. When Doctor Lim came out of surgery with Park, they explained the situation to the best of their ability. Lim was beside herself— it was no secret that she harbored an especially soft spot for Shaun when it came to the residents. Park had been shocked, the news coming completely out of left field. None of them were getting updates from Melendez, or Glassman. So, the hours passed, and they were just forced to ignore what was happening elsewhere, and clear out the ER. Little by little, they did. It was slightly easier to handle the time passing when you only focused on what each little task was. When you thought of every detail in such excruciating detail that there was no room for you to think about anything else.

By the time Claire had seen off her last patient and looked around to realize that most of the rest were being seen to, she realized just how late it was. Just how worn-down she felt. Just how many hours had gone by. If it was any other situation, she would have immediately taken off back home, once she knew she wasn't needed anymore. After all, the only reason she'd been called in was because they'd been short of staff. Now, the people they had matched the doctors at their disposal. She would have found Lim first, and made sure, but she would have booked it home as fast as her car could carry her.

But not now. Now, she just left the emergency room behind her and raced for OR 1. Her body felt like it weighed a million pounds. The only reason she had the strength left to run was the worry of what had been happening with Shaun, which was quickly flooding back through her system, becoming more and more potent the closer she got. When she found her way there and through the door and over the threshold, her heart sank when she saw Glassman. He was standing exactly how she thought he would be. It hadn't been long at all before he'd decided that he couldn't just sit around and wait to hear about Shaun; he'd rushed down here ages ago, abandoning the rest of them. And now he stood at the glass, looking in at the others with that same haunted expression on his face. He didn't even rouse when she came in.

Weakening, Claire shut the door behind her and walked forward to stand at his side. She looked into the operating field and felt her heart sink at the sight that met her. Shaun was still under, and they didn't look like they were near finished. Morgan was holding a basin and holding it out for Melendez to deposit shards of glass that they were removing from his skin. They must have stopped all his bleeding— internal and external, because their movements were careful, and not rushed. She looked at the monitor, trying to read it from where she stood. It looked like Doctor Andrews was studying it just as closely.

"It's hard to believe they're working together." Glassman was the one to break the silence. She almost jumped, his voice was so unexpected. She turned and looked at him, but he didn't even blink away from Shaun. The meaning was clear in his voice, though. "They've always hated each other. Never even tried to make it seem like they didn't. They can't have a conversation, much less agree to work together on a surgery." His voice was flat and dull. There was absolutely nothing to it. His eyes flashed, weakening in pain. "But…he needed it." The last three words were more of a croak.

Claire looked back front. "How has it been going?" she dared to ask.

Glassman took his time in answering. At first, Claire thought he didn't reply because he hadn't been paying enough attention to hear her. But when he spoke, his voice was clogged and thick, and she realized it was just because he practically couldn't. "They lost him again," he managed. He ignored Claire's stiffen, and how she whirled back to look at him in alarm. He just closed his eyes, like he couldn't bear to even see her in his peripherals. "His heart stopped for another minute…" He ducked his head down more. His next words came out in a tiny sob, as he reached up to his forehead. "He's not going to make it, there's been too much stress, there's been— he's been through too much, I…"

Claire choked back a swallow, when she looked back to the surgery. Her eyes were burning, but she tried to make sure her voice was clear when she replied. "They haven't given up. They're still working." She tried to see whether his blood pressure was still low. She wished she had been allowed to scrub in. If not to help, then to at least see everything, and hear what they were saying. Were they just as desolate as Glassman was? Were they as hopeless, just going through these motions to do all they could when they knew the damage had been done already? Or did they know it would be okay? Were they confident in their abilities to fix all of this?

She didn't know. She wasn't in there.

She looked down at the ground and closed her eyes. She wiped at her cheeks, as she felt tears burn their way down them. She couldn't even believe this was where she was standing. They'd just had a shift together. He had been stuck between her and Morgan, completely miserable because they'd been arguing about— what had they even been fighting over? He'd been upset and put-out at their constant bickering, and even though she'd noticed, she'd never apologized for it. She never apologized for being so childish, because she didn't think it was important. Now she wondered how she could have been such a bad friend. Why hadn't she just put Morgan out of her mind and just been happy to work with Shaun?

"He…" She looked up when Glassman spoke again. He'd dropped his arm and picked his head up. He was staring at Shaun, and though he still cried, his expression was almost thoughtful. Or wistful. His eyes were a little vacant, like he wasn't focused on what was in front of him. "His father was abusive…" Immediately, Claire's arms wrapped around her middle and she hugged herself tightly. Shock made her spin stiffen. "When he was fourteen he ran away from home, with his little brother, Steve. Steve…died, and…and Shaun…he didn't want to go back to his home alone, so I took him in instead," he began in a whisper, every other word choked with a suppressed sob. Claire followed his gaze to her friend. Her tears built faster, and her lips trembled. "And we didn't…he didn't want to talk at first, and I thought that was fine. Because I thought I didn't want to, either…

"It would be little things here and there…nothing— it wasn't much, I didn't…think anything of it. I was taking care of him, doing…all I could, I thought…that was all there was…" He blinked, tears rushing down his face. He was oblivious to them, though. "But…he would have…these nightmares. All the time, just…constant nightmares, and they were— they were especially bad in the first month or two. He eventually managed them." Claire wilted. Her eyes flooded with pain. "The very first night it happened, though…" Glassman's expression crumbled. He had to stop and take a deep breath to be able to continue. "I woke up in the middle of night, I just heard him screaming. I thought…someone had gotten into the house, someone was attacking him.

"And immediately, I was jumping out of bed. My heart was racing, I was tripping up the steps…and he just kept screaming— I thought by the time I got there, it would be too late. Whoever was in there…whatever was going on, I wouldn't have made it there in time." Another slow inhale that shook on its way down. "But…I got into his room, and I saw he was fine, that he was just having a nightmare, that nobody was in the house. I woke him up and— and he was so scared." His voice shattered at this. He grimaced hard, like it caused him physical pain. "It took a moment to calm him down, but…but I did. He went back to sleep, and I left…but…I couldn't get his screaming out of my mind. It played like a…like a broken record, over and over and over again. I couldn't stop hearing it.

"And when I went back to bed, my heart wouldn't stop, I couldn't calm down. I laid there for hours, just…just panicking over nothing. And…and that was when I realized…that he wasn't just someone I'd taken in— that just the thought…of something happening to him was enough to…" He grimaced again. Claire let him have a moment to himself, after which he continued. "And from that night on, I knew he probably meant more to me than I meant to him. Which I understood, I was…I was fine with that. I just wanted to protect him, and God knows I've tried every day of my life to do exactly that, but…"

He reached up to his forehead again, like he was trying to hide his face. "When he called me tonight— it was so much worse than that. He was…in pain, he was scared, he was barely even there, and I was so far away. I didn't make it there soon enough, I couldn't run fast enough, I couldn't be there for him." His shoulders began to shake and heave. Claire watched him collapse into a quiet fit of sobs, her mouth running dry and her own eyes streaming. Her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her nails digging down into her skin. "I just wanted to protect him," Glassman cried into his hands. His words were almost too choked to understand. "I couldn't do that, though, I couldn't be there for him, I wasn't there for him…"

She acted again on an impulse. An impulse this time that could be seen as crossing a line. Nevertheless, Claire turned and hesitated for only a second before she leaned out and wrapped her arms around Glassman in a hug. She felt him stiffen in surprise, and at first, he did nothing. He couldn't. But then, after a buffering second, he reached up and clung just as tightly to her as she was to him. Like they were both trying to keep the other's pieces together. Claire felt him shake with suppressed cries, and she tried not to let her own be as noticeable. She just hugged tighter, attempting to be as bracing as possible.

And, though she had learned her lesson long ago to never ever stoop so low…she found the promise slipping past her lips anyway.

"We're not going to let him die."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long! I hope the length makes it worth it, I stayed up a bit later than what is actually smart to get this out to you tonight...  
> I hope you like this chapter! It was certainly interesting for me to type, attempting to do something different, so I hope it pays off! But I'm never too sure about my chapters so don't mind me haha.  
> This isn't the last chapter! I'm breaking my streak and writing more than three, how crazy is that? Like always I edited it, but there might still be typos here and there. If there are any horrible ones I'd love to fix them! Along with anything else that might be wrong in here. Thank you for reading and I hope you like this new chapter! And that I can hear your thoughts on it! <3

The softest touch woke her. The very instant any pressure at all was applied, her eyes were snapping open, and a gasp was working its way down her throat. Claire jerked up fast, torn between exhaustion and panic which ended up conjuring the confused look on her face. And for a moment, this confusion was too all-encompassing to let her figure anything out. She didn't know which way was up or down. Her head reeled, and she whirled around, her eyes wide as they went everywhere. Eventually, they caught on who had touched her in the first place. From there, she could gather everything else, and have it make coherent sense.

Jared was crouched down so he was eye-level with her on the bottom bunk. He looked exhausted. She didn't even have any idea what time it was. His eyebrows were pulled together in concern, which didn't lessen much, even as she began to recollect herself. His hands were full. She blinked rapidly as she looked down at his load, having to clear her vision enough to make the logical connection on what it was they actually were. In his left hand he was holding a toothbrush and a tiny thing of toothpaste. In his other hand, he was holding coffee.

"I figured you might want these," he said, once she began to shake herself into actual awareness. "Or at least…one of them," he tacked on, glancing down between the two. Usually it wasn't the best thing in the world, to brush your teeth and then turn right around for coffee. It would taste even more like battery acid, then. But one couldn't be very picky, when they were in their shoes. After all, Claire had just spent the night in the on-call room, where the mattresses were more like cardboard boxes. She felt stiff even now, beginning to pick herself up into a sitting position.

She reached up and rubbed at her eyes. She had no idea how much she'd slept, but after how long she'd had to work the day and night before, there wasn't a question on whether it was enough or not. She was still completely exhausted. It dragged at her like weights. She started to yawn, when suddenly it all came rushing back, and her head snapped back up. Her tiredness was burned away with a rush of alarm instead, and she whirled around to her friend, flying out to grab hard to his arm. He stiffened at the sudden grip, but at the same time, only half of him seemed surprised. In fact, after the initial bump, his expression only weakened.

"Shaun!" she gasped. Jared started to open his mouth, but she yanked her arm back and looked down at her watch. Her heart stuttered. It was just rounding the corner into nine in the morning. Her mind was so blurry it was difficult for her to track down the last thing she remembered. It was all a whirlwind of panic and sorrow and confusion. She remembered hugging close to Glassman— she remembered him holding just as tight to her, and how, after she had given him the promise she knew was not guaranteed, he'd broken down and cried. She remembered waiting for as long as she could, but never seeing Melendez come out of surgery. They'd still been working. Glassman had stayed put. She had taken the nearest bed she could, which happened to be here. She thought that was all of it, anyway.

"Where is he, what happened!?" Claire demanded, looking up again to her friend, who had a ghost of a grimace on his face. "Have you seen him? Is he awake? Did we lose him again?" Once more, Jared started to answer, but she was already rushing on. The more questions she had, the tighter her voice became, and the more her panic grew, like it was a fire being fanned. Her lower lip was already trembling at the mere thought, but she asked anyway. "Is he okay, is he alive?" She would never forgive herself if it turned out her friend had died on the operating table, and she had been asleep. If Shaun was gone and she hadn't been there…

But Jared's reply was so much worse. "They're still in surgery," he rasped. Claire's expression froze into one of shock, and he leaned back more onto his heels. He put the coffee down on the ground but kept hold of the toothbrush and toothpaste. His expression was dull, and he ducked his head a little bit. "They haven't come out yet, they're still working on him. To my knowledge, he hasn't flatlined again, at least." What a small and insignificant victory. Was that where they were, now? He'd been in surgery for well over six hours, and all they had to show for it was: 'Well, at least his heart didn't stop again.' "I went to check about half an hour ago. It took me ages to find you. Then I went to get coffee."

"Where's Glassman?" she asked. For some reason, her voice came out more like a whisper.

"He was still standing in the OR at four in the morning, just watching…I persuaded him to find someplace to sleep. It took a lot of convincing. But all that stress and worry— he was practically dead on his feet anyway. He's in another on-call room. The one by the cafeteria; maybe that'll tempt him to eat something when he gets up." This was all said in an exhale. He reached up and rubbed at his forehead, and Claire's face fell.

"Four?" she echoed. She looked her friend up and down. "Jared— have you slept?"

He shook his head. He ignored her startle of alarm. "I kept myself busy with patients…cleaning up the last bit of people from the accident. I helped make the ER look like an ER again and not a war zone…then I went to get breakfast, and I checked in on a few patients in particular…" He hesitated, gnawing on his bottom lip for a heartbeat. Eventually, he just sighed. "I couldn't go to sleep," he confessed, softer. She frowned. "I've been watching my pager…ducking in and out of the OR to see what's been happening…I guess part of me was hoping that Melendez would ask me to come in and help, but…he never did. Or…he hasn't yet."

Claire glanced down at the floor. A long stretch of silence passed between the two friends, like both of them were too scared to break it. Or too unsure how to. Eventually, she asked: "Do you know how it's been going?" Her chest felt hollow, as she asked the question. It seemed to ring in the air just as much so. Studying her hands, she curled and uncurled her fingers. It still didn't feel real. Though she'd just woken up, it felt like a dream. They were never without Shaun— he was always right beside them. Now he was worlds away. Or he might as well be.

"I don't know too much," Jared admitted. It was clear by his voice that he was more than disappointed with the fact. "He had extensive internal bleeding…his leg was practically shattered, and there were so many bone fragments…tearing into blood vessels. They got all the glass out of him; he needed a lot of stitches for those. I don't know whether there's…whether there's nerve damage, or…" His voice failed a bit with this. Claire looked up, her expression fracturing in trace alarm. She hadn't even thought that far, yet. Up until now, she was just worried about Shaun making it in general. She hadn't considered the possibility of what would happen afterward. She hadn't been able to wonder whether or not there would be any severe repercussions.

But now…

"He went without oxygen for so long…" Claire whispered, her words hollow. Jared bit down on his lip again, but he didn't say anything. "His heart stopped for five minutes, and it stopped again in the operating room— how much damage is that going to do?" The question was soft, and it was rhetorical. She didn't want an actual answer; she couldn't stomach it. But at the same time, Jared wouldn't have an answer for her as it was. "He could have brain damage," she rasped emptily. "He could come out with severe brain damage, or nerve damage— his hand, his hand was…" She closed her eyes tightly. Her shoulders hunched.

Jared took in a slow breath. He picked up the coffee cup and held it out for her, along with the toothbrush. She stared at both but made no move towards them. He encouraged softly: "Right now, all that matters is that he's alive. He's still breathing. That's what we need to focus on." She hesitated. It wasn't enough, and they both knew it. That was just something doctors said to frantic families to get them off their back, so they could think their way out of whatever horrible situation it was they had backed them into a corner. Telling it to themselves when they knew this to be true took away any kind of solace. They both knew this, but still, Jared stayed resolute. "Come on, Claire," he pushed gently. "What would Shaun say if he was here?"

She hesitated. She cracked a tiny smile that came out looking far sadder than she intended. Her voice was the same when she replied with a tiny laugh. "He'd tell you to get the coffee out of his face because he hates it," she sniffed. Jared cracked a grin, and she reached out to take the cup. It was hot in her hand, and somewhat of a comfort. It was like it was any other ordinary day. Like she was just getting ready to face the patients they would have. Even though it wasn't like that at all.

She got up and followed Jared out into the hall. She made for the bathroom and brushed her teeth and tried to make her hair look somewhat decent, and at least a little bit less like a rat's nest. She'd slept so little, it wasn't too bad. She ended up just pulling it back. She didn't care at all how she looked. She went back out and rejoined him, and together they headed for the OR where Shaun had been taken. They did so without a word, and they fell into step with one another. It was a comfort of some sort, to have Jared at her side. Though she was painfully aware that Shaun wasn't with them to complete their party, it was at least a little normal. And after all Jared had done so far, she was more than grateful to him.

In silence, they walked down to the OR. They weren't scheduled…after working such a long shift the day before, they were already off. Given the fact they'd been called in afterwards gave them even more of a right to go home. But it was clear neither of them would. They didn't need to, but more importantly, they didn't want to. There wouldn't be a point; everything they needed was here. There was a shower in the doctor's longue, and there were beds in the on-call rooms, as uncomfortable and stiff as they were. There was a cafeteria with food. And there was Shaun. They might not have a change of clothes, but that was an issue to be focused on later.

They didn't speak because there wasn't much they could say. Claire's mind was too crowded to try and scrounge something up. She couldn't get the image of Shaun out of her mind— of the sheer amount of blood that had been soaking his clothes. She couldn't get the sound of Glassman's sobbing out of her mind, either. She could picture it easily— the old man standing with his face up to the glass, staring intently at the surgical procedure like he was worried if he didn't, it would all fall apart. She had no idea how Jared had torn him away. She wondered if he was still sleeping, or if he was already up and back at his post.

An answer was presented when they walked through the doors. The viewing room was completely empty. But a glance through the windows showed that the three surgeons were still in the operating field working. Claire's stomach clenched, as she walked up to the glass. Jared stayed close to her like a shadow, and she found herself trying to reap as much comfort as she could from his being there. It wasn't much, but it was all she had at the moment. Melendez's back was to her; after working at his hand for as long as she had, she was usually pretty adept at reading his emotions, as much as he tried to hide them. At least, when it came to surgeries and their outcome, she was. She wished she could see how he looked now. Maybe she would understand more.

Jared spoke. For some reason, his voice only came in a whisper. "It's strange…"

"Yeah," she rasped, following his lead and speaking just as low. She knew that, at least for herself, she had never been on this end of it all. She had never done anything but hold the knife. She was always the one to deliver the news to the distraught family afterwards…she had never been the distraught family before. She had appreciated the fear and worry that was always on the other end, but she had never felt it firsthand. She hated it. She hated not knowing. She hated not having the answers. It was driving her insane.

They went insane together. They waited. They didn't talk much, even though it probably would have been a comfort. They just moved fitfully around the room. Claire sat down for a while, holding her head in her hands. Then she got back up and moved for the window again. Jared sat in the corner against the wall, studying the ground with a heavy frown. The both of them paced, and then went back to the glass. She rested her head against Jared's shoulder and felt her stomach sink about seven times in a row. Every so often, they would both mutter in agreement that they should go and get something to eat. Or they should go and find Glassman. Or Jared should go and actually close his eyes. But neither of them actually moved to carry out any of those things. They were stuck here.

Eventually, after what seemed like forever, it was finished. Jared was first to notice when they started to close Shaun up. He turned and nudged Claire, who had started to stare off into space and lose touch. She snapped back into attention and stiffened the moment she realized what was happening. There was more tension in the air. Her forehead was practically on the glass when she stood up and fought to see him better. But it was pretty moot. And there wasn't much to tell. They would have to wait for Melendez to come out and speak to them.

Finally, what felt like years later, he did.

He was run-down. He looked like a ghost of his former self. He was exhausted, and worn, and he looked like he was on the verge of collapse. The other two filed out behind him. Morgan's eyes flickered quickly to Claire and Jared, who were waiting by the door, but she ducked away, with a strange look on her face. It was just as well, though; they weren't wanting to talk to her. She was the last person on their list that they wanted to speak with, if she was even on it in the first place. They looked to their teacher first; him and Andrews alike. They didn't have to ask. The question was plain on their faces.

Melendez was looking at them the moment he crossed the threshold. His stare was heavy, weighed down with fatigue and something else as he made for the sinks on the other side of the room. His voice was monotone. "You two shouldn't be here," he murmured. "You should be sleeping, after a shift like that. You're not going to do anybody good wandering around here like zombies."

"We couldn't leave," Claire objected weakly. "We're not going to."

Melendez hesitated, his stare lingering on his residents. He looked like he wanted to argue, but thought better of it. Like he couldn't yell at them for doing what he was also planning to. The two kept staring at him, just waiting. He sighed and looked at Morgan. "Reznick, you go home," he ordered, and it was well-understood that she would take the offer without hesitation. But there was no bitterness in his voice. He only regarded her with approval. "You did well. Thank you for assisting."

She only nodded. Again, her eyes flickered to Claire and Jared. It was clear that the two of them weren't sure what to think. Their expressions were a little guarded as they looked at her. Claire looked down at the ground, and Jared stuffed his hands into his pockets. Her work was done, though, and after she finished washing her hands, she turned and sidled around the others. Doctor Andrews roused as well, and he looked over at Melendez with a tiny exhale. "I'll make sure he's taken care of in post-op" he said. He looked over his coworker with a frown. "Are you sure you're going to stay? What you said goes for you as well as them— you're no use to anyone—"

"I'm staying," he said flatly, before he could finish. Andrews closed his mouth. Their attending seemed to regret the snap as he lowered his head a bit more. "I've had longer shifts. And this is important." He moved on quickly, just in case there was any argument. "Thank you for your help. I appreciate it." The gratitude was rare, especially to Andrews. But it was genuine, when he turned to look at him.

Andrews was silent at first, but eventually he gave up. "Of course," he replied. "You helped me with the charity donor…I was just…repaying the favor." The two held one another's gazes a heartbeat longer, before Andrews turned to head out the way Morgan had. Claire and Jared watched in silence, before they looked back to their teacher. The wait was killing them. Claire had to practically restrain herself from spinning around and sprinting after Andrews to follow him into post-op. Of course, that was likely her next destination, from here. But first she needed to know what she would be walking into.

Melendez finished washing his hands, before he turned back to face them. His stare was still heavy. It looked like there was nothing left in it— like he didn't even have the energy for any kind of emotion. His hands went up to his hips and he took in a loud, slow breath. "It was difficult," he exhaled, starting slowly, and reluctantly. Claire's stomach jolted; Jared ducked his head to train his eyes on the floor. "His heart stopped again— he sustained…quite a lot of damage and trauma. But we removed all the shrapnel and glass…we have to get a CT to assess the damage to his brain from going without oxygen…"

He was holding something back. The two stared at him in silence, still tense, still waiting. He looked away this time, and he gave a stiffer nod. "The median nerve was cut in his right arm," he announced, and Claire immediately closed her eyes and cringed away. He may as well have slapped her, for all her reaction. His eyes flashed with something akin to pain; he still refused to look at them, though he caught her flinch in his peripheral. "We reconnected it— tied it back together, and it was relatively close to the elbow joint, but…"

The silence that followed was oppressive. Claire and Jared swallowed this news, as well as its implication, twin looks of sorrow and remorse coming over their face, like they were in mourning. Melendez took in a breath that was much too sharp. "But it's just a waiting game, now," he breathed. His voice sounded different. "We have to…monitor him. Closely. Make sure his heart is strong enough to pump— make sure none of his organs…shut down. He went into hypovolemic shock— his kidneys could go…" He trailed off, like he wanted to say more, but suddenly forgot how to speak. He looked at the ground, and Claire was a little caught off-guard by how heavy his expression was.

All the same, he took in another fast breath. "You should go find Glassman," he offered, and the both of them automatically straightened out of habit at the order. "I can fill him in on everything, and you can listen more then. No sense in repeating myself."

Jared turned at once, given that he actually knew where the president was. Claire started to follow. She wanted to check in on him and see how he was doing, too. Whether he was able to sleep, and whether it had made him feel any better. Whether things seemed brighter in the light of morning, or whether it was just as dim for him as it was for her. But she stopped short instead, at the threshold of the exit. Jared kept going, too focused to realize her shortcoming. She turned back, looking at her teacher again. He was rubbing at his face hard. His shoulders were braced and curled forward. Like he was trying to hold something up that was far too heavy for him.

Without thinking, she went back. Her eyebrows were pulled more together, in concern. "Are you okay?" she asked, the question hesitant, like she was afraid to let it become an actual inquiry in the first place. He tensed and looked up quickly when he realized she was still there. And immediately, he grew defensive. She wilted, knowing it wasn't her place to pry. But all the same, she said softly: "You…you're doing the best you can." His eyes flashed; he still said nothing. "You did all you could," she amended. "There's nothing else you can do…as a surgeon."

He didn't react, at first. Before he gave a tiny nod. "I know." The reply was stiff.

She still refused to move. "He'll be grateful. No matter the outcome."

"If there even is one." The reply was rushed, and probably rash. It came without thinking, and she could see the regret that immediately swarmed over his face once it did. He winced. His voice was thinner when he picked up again. "He's not out of the woods," he all but growled. Claire fought not to cringe away from the statement. Though she knew it was true. "There's no guarantee. I haven't done anything for him, yet. I'll have done something once he's awake. Once he's fine."

"That's not true," she objected softly.

He said nothing. He just stared at her, and somehow, that silence was even worse. The look on his face disarmed her and rendered her mute. It made her heart squeeze in pain, and she tried not to blink, should her eyes begin to sting. Eventually he looked away, but the weight on her chest wasn't alleviated in the slightest. She could see the burden of responsibility – crushing, suffocating – threatening to overwhelm him. He was never one to crumble under the pressure. He was never one to take the job of being a surgeon with anything other than the utmost confidence. It just wasn't like him. But here it was, now.

He was scared. Just like he'd been scared in the ER. He was scared that they were going to lose him. That whatever help he could offer Shaun wouldn't be enough, and he would slip through their fingers anyway. He was scared that this was all pointless, and that when it was all over, and Shaun was dead, the only thought that would circle in his head was that he had not been good enough to keep him breathing. He was scared for all the reasons that Claire was. The fact was clear between the both of them. Unspoken, but loud as loud as a scream.

Neither one of them spoke. They couldn't break this silence that said far more than words could.

They just stared at one another in mutual understanding.

In mutual terror.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

It was raining. He could hear the raindrops against the metal, drumming hard like tiny bullets. It was raining…or maybe this was a memory of the rain. A lot of important things had happened to him when it was raining. It had been raining the night his rabbit had died. It had been raining his first day of college. It had been raining when the bus had—

'Today, we will sell our uniform. Live together. Live together.'

He knew this song. He remembered it. Shaun blinked, some kind of awareness dawning over him as he looked down at himself. At his hands, resting in his lap, and the seatbelt that was across his chest. He blinked again, and looked up, the pieces clicking together far too slowly as he found himself looking out the windshield of a car. He was in a car— he was in the passenger seat. And he thought he could smell something, too…he thought he could smell…

"Did you like the song, at least?"

Shaun turned. He found himself answering even though he didn't really think beforehand. "Yes," he answered softly. "It was nice."

Lea smiled at him. "Good. I'm glad." She looked back front, at the road. Even though, at least to him, it didn't seem like there was anything to be seen. It all looked dark. Even though the headlights were on, the twin yellow beams didn't seem to penetrate the blackness at all. The light started and died in this ray, confined to the one straight line. The only sound was the rain and the song, for a while. He couldn't even hear the engine as they drove. Lea's voice broke the quiet. She sounded soft and sweet…like she always did. "How are you holding up?" The question was asked simply, though the subject matter was anything but.

Shaun only stared at her, though. His eyes were soft. "You're here," he murmured.

She glanced at him. She was smiling again. "'Course I am," she replied. "And so are you."

He looked at the road again. Or…where the road should have been. Where it had to be. "Where are we going?"

"You told me no beach," she chirped. "So…not a beach, that's for sure." Shaun wasn't satisfied with the answer. She must have been able to tell that, because she kept going on, after a pause. "We're going wherever you need to go, Shaun," she defined. "I always take you where you need to go. It's kind of our whole thing." Her eyes were soft with affection. But there also seemed to be a little sorrow there, as well. "Where do you need to go, Shaun?" she mused.

He blinked. "I don't…know where I need to go. I don't know where I am."

"Well…I guess that's understandable," she murmured. "Can't really get somewhere if you don't even know where you're starting, huh? That's always the first step."

'We played hide-and-seek in waterfalls…we were younger. We were younger.'

"Where do you want to go, then?" she prompted. "If you don't know where you  _need_  to go…where do you  _want_ to?"

He considered the question. He stared down at the floor of the car between his feet; that was almost lost in darkness, too. He couldn't really see a lot around him, now that he stopped to consider it. Most of it was lost, and too faded to discern. But he wasn't really focused on trying to see. Her question brought to mind something else— somewhere else. Some  _people_  else. And at first it was difficult to pin it down, because his thoughts were slippery…everywhere and nowhere all at once. Kind of like he was thinking too much, but on impulse, because he wasn't even aware of it. But her question— where did he want to go? Well…he wanted…

"What song is this?" He blinked, his head picking up again. But he didn't quite turn, yet. He only stared at the rain smacking against the glass, how it splattered against the windshield for a second before it was cleared away by the wipers. The song that was playing was cut off prematurely; it never had the opportunity to finish. Something else was put on instead. Just like the other one, he recognized it at once.

'Ooh, baby, do you know what that's worth? Ooh, heaven is a place on earth! They say in heaven, love comes first…!'

He turned to look back at the driver's seat, and Claire flashed him a wide grin. Her eyes were sparkling, like they always did when she was trying not to laugh but was about to anyway. That was the way she'd looked when she'd played this song in the doctor's lounge…they'd taken a break between patients, exhausted and tired and irritated. She and Jared had been making a conscious effort not to throw their medical licenses in the trash and join a travelling circus instead. Or at least, that's what they'd said seven times that day. Shaun had counted.

She'd turned on this song to 'brighten things up' and make their day a little less terrible. If only for its four minute and fifteen second duration. It must have done something, because Jared stopped thumping his head down on the table like he was intent on killing every last one of his brain cells. Claire had started humming along, but eventually she hadn't been able to keep herself from singing. Very dramatically, at that, and directly to Shaun, once she'd realized how exasperated he was at her performance. He'd deflated in disappointment as she'd shimmied her shoulders. She'd only laughed harder at the look that had been on his face. Jared had started snickering too; the goal of a break had been achieved, mostly by the expense of Shaun, who'd looked like he would rather die than sit there and listen. He didn't even like when people sang Happy Birthday to him— that had been ten times worse.

And suddenly the car was gone and he was sitting there now, Claire's phone on the table between the three of them and his two friends grinning and laughing. Claire was singing, making a show of pointing to Shaun with one hand and clenching a fist with the other that she held up to her chest. Jared was drumming along to the beat on the table top; though it wasn't announced, the two of them were trying to outperform the other. So far, it was a draw on who exactly was winning. Shaun wasn't really paying attention, though. His expression was blank, and his eyes started to draw over to the side, to the door that was directly behind Claire. After a few moments of half-listening to them sing, he scooted his chair back and stood. He was moving agonizingly slow…he wasn't sure if it was just disorientation, or fear, or something else.

Claire turned and watched him as he began to walk forward. A frown came over her face. Jared kept banging on the table. "Where are you going?"

"I…" Where  _was_  he going? Where did he  _want_  to go? He reached for the doorknob, staring down dully as his fingers touched it, but he didn't feel it. Again, his mouth moved without him really thinking. His words were as much a surprise to them as they were to him. "I need…I need to…" His friends were here, but there was another friend that wasn't…he needed to see them. He needed to talk to them. To tell them…to tell them…

"Shaun, where are you?"

He blinked, and it changed again. He felt himself swaying slightly from side to side. Across from him, instead of seeing the door, he saw windows, like he was back in the car again. Only he wasn't. It was bigger, and the thudding of the rain sounded different. He was sitting in a hard chair of plastic, not leather. He was on the bus. He was back here, but it was completely empty. He was the only person on it, sitting alone underneath the harsh fluorescent lights, which flickered every so often. Or, at least, he thought he was completely alone, until that voice registered. But still, Shaun just watched the rain outside, and listened to the rhythmic whirring of the wheels. Until the same voice prompted: "What happened on the bus, Shaun?"

He turned to see Glassman sitting in the chair directly to his left. He was staring at him intently…not even blinking. Shaun was silent for quiet some time, trying to figure out what to say. When he did speak, his voice was quiet. Nearly swallowed up by everything else. "It hasn't crashed yet," he murmured, and if he was actually thinking, he might have reflected on how odd the statement was. But it was true. They were still going.

"Are you okay?" Glassman demanded. Perfect recitation, down to the very emphasis in each word.

"Nothing has happened yet." He glanced over the empty seats and empty aisles. His voice was even smaller when he declared: "But I'm alone." He looked at his hands, resting limp in his lap. He slowly began to wilt. "This doesn't make sense…none of this makes sense," he breathed. He looked back at Glassman, as if for answers. Glassman only stared at him. The way he did that day he'd almost gotten shot. Sadly, and fearfully. It only made Shaun weaken even more. Eventually, he couldn't keep himself from asking the question that had been trying to burst its way forward this entire time.

"Am I dying?" he rasped.

"Shaun? Shaun!" Shaun turned back front, ignoring Glassman's call. It was pointless, and for some reason he knew that. He stared ahead blankly, without an expression on his face. He was staring towards the windows, and the rain that was streaking over the glass. Too fast…they were going too fast, for this kind of weather. They needed to slow down. Glassman kept yelling; Shaun didn't bat an eye. "Are you there!?" He was starting to suspect he wasn't. But he wasn't sure. "Shaun!?" Where was here? If there was nobody on the bus, then where were they going? Was there even a driver?

"Shaun, I'll be right there, I'll— I'll find you!" he kept on.

Shaun felt a sensation close to sadness. If he could even feel something like that; he was pretty sure it was close enough. "You're not going to," he objected quietly, Glassman continuing to yell over him. Demanding his attention, pleading with him to stay on the phone even though he wasn't holding one, and they were sitting right next to each other. The older man's expression never shifted, he never moved a muscle. He just kept staring at Shaun in that odd, mournful way. "You're not going to find me in time," Shaun warned. His expression began to crumble. He looked down at himself— at the seat he couldn't feel underneath him. This wasn't real, and if this wasn't real…

The thought was never completed. The bus jerked, and Shaun looked up in just enough time to see a blare of headlights before something hard crashed into its side. Before there was a familiar ripping noise and the bus was sent reeling over, and he found himself being ripped upwards again, this time feeling no pain and no fear, just odd weightlessness. The last thing Shaun heard, besides the tearing of metal, was Glassman, still yelling for him like nothing had even happened.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

The recovery room was more crowded than usual, tonight. But its typical silence wasn't broken in the slightest, even with Shaun added to its ranks. The quiet was eerie. Usually Claire found it peaceful, but not this time. This time, she only stood in it with her shoulders hunched, a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach as she looked down at her friend. He was pale and unresponsive, still needing the help of a ventilator to breathe properly. The sight of him pained her, but at least he wasn't covered with blood like he had been when he'd first been brought in. At least she could actually see him, now. Her friend wasn't hidden under all that gore.

Glassman was on the other side of the bed, staring down at Shaun like someone would stare down at a freshly-covered grave. He looked stricken, and lost, and overwhelmed with grief. Like he was fit to collapse. Though he'd managed a few hours of sleep before the two residents had woken him to tell him Shaun was finally out of surgery, he was still worn. Despite the obvious exhaustion, though, here he was. The moment he heard Shaun was out, he was practically sprinting here. They hadn't even tried to offer him a break to eat anything, much less the possibility of them just watching Shaun for him, so he could sleep a little longer. It would have been pointless. They'd just accepted that.

"There's not much more we can do except wait," Melendez exhaled, where he stood nearer to the foot of Shaun's bed. He still looked as burdened as he'd had before. If Claire didn't know any better, she would have thought that he looked even worse, now that Glassman was here. The older doctor didn't even react to the statement. It was probably well-understood in it of itself. "I'll have my pager on me. I'm sure Claire and Jared aren't planning on leaving him…" The two nodded immediately. "The very instant that something starts to go wrong, I'll rush him back in. I'll do everything I can." His voice was harder than normal, as if to compensate for the vow. Again, his expression flickered. He clasped his hands a little tighter, where they were behind his back.

Glassman didn't dare look away from Shaun. But quietly, he whispered: "Thank you."

Neil nodded in acknowledgement, but his jaw locked backwards, like he was in pain. He lingered for a second, like he wasn't sure whether or not there was something more he could do. But there wasn't, and he knew it. The realization wasn't without heartache, but it was there all the same. He flashed Claire a look, and she tried to smile at him, in case there could be any reassurance there. Before she could tell if there was, he was already making his way out of the room. She hoped that he could find a place to sleep. He deserved it…even if he thought he didn't.

She sighed as she looked back at Shaun. Her heart twisted. Nobody spoke for what felt like fifteen lifetimes. Eventually, she dared herself to break to silence. "Jared…told me that we just need to focus on the fact that he's alive," she said, raising her eyes to Glassman. His expression flickered in harsh pain. She saw him grip the rails of the bed harder. She could tell he was upset, but nevertheless, she tried to go on. "We can worry about everything else when it comes time to. For now…he's here. Maybe not with us…but he's with us."

Glassman was crying again. She didn't really realize it until he spoke, and she heard how clogged and constricted his voice was. "I can't lose him," he croaked. Claire winced away from the statement, and she sidled a little closer to Jared, to try and get some kind of comfort from her friend. She found she couldn't stomach to look at Shaun, while Glassman cried. "I can't lose him, not now…" He grimaced and ducked his head low. His voice was devoid of all hope when he continued. "And even if he wakes up— what happens if he has…irreversible brain damage? What if he can never move his arm again?"

Claire tried to take the questions with a grain of salt and pretend that she didn't share in his worries. She tried to remind herself that they were on the other side of it all, now. If Shaun was her patient…if she didn't know that he loved pancakes and medicine and that he always did this specific little double-take whenever someone told a particular kind of joke and that his favorite candy was Twizzlers…then her prognosis for the future would be much different. It would be clearer, and she would be able to think through it more logically. She would keep her head on her shoulders, where it belonged. She would be straightforward, like a good doctor should be. The outlook would be clear, and precise.

This wasn't that. They weren't detached, they were fully involved, which was why doctors were always discouraged from treating friends and family. It was different, this way. They were scared, and they were worried. They had the medical knowledge they always did, but their emotions were barring them from reaching it. There couldn't be any certainty because they were seeing Shaun, not a patient. They were seeing a friend, or in Glassman's case, a son. They couldn't address the topic of brain injuries or loss of muscle movement, because they didn't want to. They couldn't. It was too hard.

She knew the dangers of going without oxygen.

She knew how difficult it was to recover from a median nerve injury in the arm.

She just didn't let herself face it fully, the way she would if this person was a stranger to her.

So when she replied, she purposefully didn't answer any of his demands. Not in the way he wanted her to, anyway. "We'll be there for him," she said, and Glassman just closed his eyes. "No matter what happens…no matter what he might lose…we're going to be here for him and we're going to help him in any way we can. Nothing else matters. As long as he lives…as long as he pulls through, that's all we care about. Everything else is secondary." She knew it wasn't completely right. Not one hundred percent truthful. But it was the more comforting option to take.

Jared announced very plainly at her side: "He'll pull through." In contrast to her, he was more than sure of this fact. She glanced at him, and he just nodded his head. "He'll be perfectly fine. He's way too stubborn to let something like this be the thing that takes him out." She softened just the tiniest bit. And she looked back down at Shaun with a tiny laugh when Jared added: "Plus, I told him that on Tuesday I would buy him breakfast, so you know he won't possibly let himself go before he gets free pancakes."

"You'll be the reason the day is saved," Claire teased, reaching up to wipe at her eyes.

"Just doing my job," Jared returned.

Glassman wasn't moved by their jokes. He was still being crushed, under this sorrow. And when he spoke next, his voice was layered in something akin to bitterness. "Why wasn't he brought in?" They were silent at the question, but their own stares grew sadder again when they took in the sight of their friend. Bandaged and stitched and sewn back together like he was barely able to be held in one piece. Fragile. And that was without even taking into consideration all the internal damage they couldn't see. "The emergency room…was  _filled_ with people that had less severe injuries." Glassman's voice was harder now— growing angrier. His eyes were narrowing. "How could they have kept running past him?" he demanded. "How could other people who didn't even need help get it before him?"

It shocked Claire, to hear. It wasn't like Glassman at all, to ask things like this. To blatantly shove aside people that  _had_  needed them, even if they hadn't been a dire emergency. She agreed that Shaun should have come in sooner, but she wasn't about to phrase it like that. To feel the amount of anger that was currently building inside the doctor's eyes. She hesitated for a long moment, unsure whether or not what she had to say would be helpful. Or within her rights. Eventually, she took in a breath and let it out slowly. "I don't think Shaun wanted the help," she managed, after some time.

Glassman looked up, the shock and confusion spurred by her words being enough to finally get him looking away from Shaun. Claire forced herself to keep her resolve. "I think he was trying to do the helping…" She turned, looking at all the other people in recovery from surgeries still. Other remnants of the crash littered around them everywhere they looked. She tried to ignore how Glassman's stare was practically stabbing through her. "When I first came in, Doctor Lim was prepping a woman for surgery. Her leg was practically ripped open, right down to the bone. She had a— above the wound in the perfect spot…was Shaun's jacket, tied in a knot. Like a tourniquet."

Glassman blinked. His forehead immediately creased. For all his response, she could have been speaking another language.

"It was one of the reasons she didn't bleed out on the way back," she reasoned. "Shaun could have tied it there for her…that, or someone took his jacket off of him, but…he had so much internal bleeding from his broken leg. It would make sense…if he kept moving, the shards of bone would have been able to slice through those blood vessels and make it worse…" She tried to picture that, and immediately she couldn't. She couldn't imagine having the extent of Shaun's injuries in the first place, let alone moving around with them like they weren't there. It would be awful. It would be hell. Had he really done that?

Glassman hesitated. He looked back at Shaun, and the anger was melting away. That intense sorrow was left to creep right back in its place. His misery seemed so deep, you could drown in it. "A woman in the crash…she was talking about someone who had helped her get her baby out of the bus. She'd said…he'd come all the way back to help her…" Claire closed her eyes tightly once she felt them starting to burn. She could see it, clearly. It was a painful picture to look at, but she could. She could see Shaun setting aside himself, despite the injuries he had. She could see him putting others first and focusing on them. Because…

"Shaun's always wanting to help." Jared completed her thought for her, repeating his words from before in the emergency room. Now, his voice was laden with sorrow. His expression was raw, as he looked at his friend. There still was absolutely no doubt in his voice when he murmured: "Shaun would have helped every single person in that bus before he let himself get the help he needed. That's probably why he got so bad. He kept moving, even though he shouldn't have."

Glassman cringed. Remorse washed over him, and he shook his head. Claire could hardly stomach it. "No…" he choked, barely even getting that singular word out. He looked at Shaun, and his expression crumbled. He was disappointed, emotional, lost, everything all at once. "No, Shaun." He could barely be understood; he was still shaking his head, like he couldn't bring himself to stop.

He reached down and put his hand down over Shaun's wrist. He couldn't hold his hand, for the fresh stitching that was there. He bent low over him, like he was going to fall. "Why did you do that?" he demanded tearfully. Claire and Jared exchanged a look, suddenly feeling as though they were intruding. Like they shouldn't be there, to see this. But neither of them could leave. "You could have let other help come, you didn't need to—" He choked on whatever he was going to say. He looked down dismally, but Shaun's eyes didn't even twitch with the tiniest bit of life. He was just as unresponsive, even with Glassman's hand on him.

It only made the older man break down even more. "You should have gotten help," he cried softly. Like he was admonishing him for making some kind of mistake. "You should have gotten help, you should have come back." He took in a sharp breath, looking at his arm, his leg, his sides, where all the major injuries were. Everywhere. Unavoidable. His next question was so soft, Claire could hardly hear it. "Now what's going to happen?" Glassman whispered, staring at Shaun mournfully. "What am I supposed to do if you lost everything to save those other people?"

Claire's heart stabbed with pain. She looked away to hide the fact she had to wipe at her eyes.

Glassman wasn't even bothering to do the same. He just let his tears fall freely, staring at Shaun like he was waiting for him to wake up and offer him an answer.

And, of course, he didn't. Shaun stayed unresponsive. Dead to them.

The only thing they got in response was the hum of the ventilator that was doing all his breathing.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

He opened his eyes and he was on his side. Like he'd been thrown from the bus in the impact, but instead of skidding onto pavement, he was surrounded by grass. He couldn't really feel it underneath him, but he knew what it  _would_ feel like. Prickly, and uncomfortable, and it kind of seeped into at least a kind of feeling, in a way. His eyes blinked open, and for a moment he stayed there, motionless, and just staring blankly over the tips of the blades. Like he was waiting for something, but he didn't know what it was he needed.

Eventually he moved; he didn't know how long it took him to. But after a while, however long it was, he got his arms to wriggle underneath him and push himself up. First into a sitting position, and then up to stand. Once this was accomplished, he turned, looking behind him as if he already knew what was waiting there. When his eyes settled on the building, Shaun felt a distinct pull in his gut. A kind of twisting that made his hands clasp tighter together. That made his expression weaken, and a certain kind of tension stiffen up his muscles and make him want to run.

But he didn't run. He stood there and stared for a very long time, almost succumbing to the instinct. But eventually something compelled him to walk forwards, instead. He walked up the grass that bordered the driveway, and his eyes flickered over the entire house as he approached it. He remembered it— of course he did. He knew every place to look. He knew where to look on the first step, to see the chip that was in the stone. He knew where to find the rosebush that was near the entryway. The bike that was propped up against the closed garage, and the rocking chair that was on the porch. It was all there, like nothing had been touched. Exactly as remembered.

He walked slowly up the steps and hesitated at the door, his hand freezing halfway and hanging in midair. His eyes flickered from his hand to the knob. His shoulders curled inward a little bit. Half of him wanted to turn right back around and walk the way he'd come. He almost did— it would have been easy to. He would have preferred to. But he didn't. Instead he just forced himself to reach the rest of the way and open the door. He forced himself to walk through and let himself inside. The click the door made behind him seemed to bounce and echo, like he'd slammed it as hard as he could.

He cringed away from the sound, and its unwarranted volume. When he opened his eyes again, it was only to crack them, and to take in the area around him uneasily. The inside was just like the outside was: completely the same. The same carpet, the same floors. The same walls, and the same lighting, even. Shaun took this all in, pushing his legs into motion again. He walked slowly, looking at every door he passed. He tried to reach out and run his hand along the wall of the hallway, but his face fell when he realized he couldn't feel the texture of the wallpaper. It was like he was breezing his hand over absolutely nothing.

Eventually, he came into the living room. He kept walking, but slowed more and more, until he was stopped in its middle. Then, he didn't know what he was supposed to do. He looked around aimlessly at the chairs and couches. His expression was slowly becoming more and more pained. Finally, he tried to call out. "Hello?" His voice echoed back to him, too, just like the door's shut had. He felt completely alone. His hands clenched even tighter. "Hello?" he repeated, his voice more strained. He wilted and dared to push even further to ask: "…Steve?"

"You came back."

Shaun stiffened immediately at the voice that came from behind him. He went absolutely rigid, and at first it was impossible for him to turn around. He stayed stock-still, just staring with wide eyes at the wall across from him. "I figured you would eventually. I just wasn't sure when." Shaun's face fell. He stayed put where he was, but after a while, it seemed that that wasn't enough for them. "Turn around." And he winced immediately at the underlying anger and authority that was there in the tone. He didn't want this— he wanted to go back somewhere else, anywhere else. He wanted back with Steve, or in the car with Lea, or with Claire and Jared in the break room. Not with— "Turn around!"

He did. Once their voice raised to a yell, Shaun had no choice but to spin quickly. Still, it took a moment for him to draw together the resolve to lift his eyes. His father was standing in the entryway of the living room, his eyes narrowed in their usual disappointment. It took everything Shaun had to look at him, and even then, he wasn't sure how long he could keep it up. His father looked at him with a critical stare, like he was judging every inch of him. He always did that. Judge him. Think that he knew him the best, and his once-over glance was enough to encompass everything Shaun had to offer. That he was nothing more than the surface traits that he deemed strange, or wrong.

That was the idea Shaun had grown up with, and this was the reason for that. Standing right in front of him.

"Why don't you tell me, though?" his father invited. Shaun said nothing. He just watched with open wariness as his father began to slowly walk more into the room. Closer to him. Shaun was frozen. "I know why you're here but go ahead and tell me. I want to hear you say it." There was a smile on his face, but it wasn't a friendly one. It was cold, and Shaun couldn't really face it. When he was still mute, his father pressed: "Go on. Tell me why you're here."

Ages passed in silence. Until, in barely a whisper, he replied: "I don't know why I'm here."

"Don't lie to me." The reply was flat. But cutting, at the same time. Shaun fought not to crouch away when he only continued to advance. "Why are you here?" he repeated.

Shaun looked down at his hands. His voice stayed small. "There was a crash," he began to recall, hesitantly. "The…bus—"

"No," he cut through. Shaun closed his eyes. "That's not why you're here. And you know it." He came even closer. Subconsciously, Shaun began to shrink down in response. To clam up and cower away. "Tell me why you're here, Shaun. It's not hard. Just tell me." 'It's not hard.' That's what he always used to say. 'It's not hard, Shaun.' 'This isn't difficult!' 'Why are you messing this up?' 'Why isn't this clear to you?' 'Why are you like this?' I don't know. That was always the thought that occurred to Shaun with every one of those questions. I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. But that answer hadn't worked for him. It hadn't back then, and it didn't now.

Shaun kept staring down towards the floor. He struggled to calm himself down— to find the right words. He felt like he wanted to cry again. He felt like he  _needed_ to cry. Like he was going to buckle and lose control of himself, and shut down, but somehow, some way, that didn't happen. Somehow, he brought himself to answer. To give the answer his father wanted. The answer that he'd been tempted to give from the very beginning, but just hadn't been able to.

"I'm here…because I couldn't do it," he confessed in a rasp.

"That's right," his father approved, and Shaun closed his eyes in a cringe. "I told you you couldn't. How many times did I tell you that you needed to stop— that you weren't behaving— that you weren't acting normally? Appropriately?" Shaun began to draw his arms up more to his chest, like he was trying to shield himself from something. "All I ever did was try and help you. Constantly, I was trying to help you be normal, like other kids your age. Constantly, I told you that you had to try harder, that you needed me. And what did you do?"

Shaun kept his lips pressed tightly together. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

"You ran off," he answered for him. "You ran off with some dream about becoming a doctor. A  _doctor_! Of all things! And not just a doctor, but a surgeon." His voice was tinged with scorn, now. He was getting even closer. "Do you hear how stupid that sounds?" he asked. Shaun said nothing. " _Do you_?" he repeated. "Do you  _hear_ how ridiculous that is!? With all the things you did as a kid? With all the trouble you got into because you didn't know how to do simple, everyday things that everyone else did!?"

He shook his head. "You're here because you couldn't do it," he repeated his words. "You thought you could be a doctor and save everyone— and be this miracle story that other little kids could tell each other to make them feel better about themselves." Shaun couldn't tell if he was crying. "But you're not. You're here. You couldn't save all of those people, and you couldn't save yourself, just like you couldn't save your brother. You're no better than you were back then. You're still just as stupid. You're still just as useless."

Shaun struggled to speak. It felt like something was choking him. "I…I tried—"

"You tried!" he spat, scorn layered thick in each syllable. "Just like you tried to help Steve?" He scowled at him, with enough fire to burn him on the spot. "You have the nerve to try and call out for him when you're the reason he died?" If Shaun was rendered mute before, it was nothing compared to the reaction he had now. Immediately, his eyes flew to be ten times their normal size. He felt like the room was spinning, like he was going to collapse. Like he was going to suffocate. Apparently, this response did nothing to deter his father. His anger was unrelenting, like it always was. "You are. You're the reason you two had to run away from home in the first place. You're the reason Steve was in that warehouse that morning— not me. If it hadn't been for you getting into trouble at school, nothing would have happened. There wouldn't have been a fight, you wouldn't have run away, and Steve would still be alive. His death was completely your fault."

"It…it wasn't…" Shaun struggled to find his voice, "…my fault."

"Of course it was!" his father snapped. Now he was close enough to tower over him, and even though Shaun was taller now than he had been before, somehow it didn't matter. Somehow, his dad still loomed— dangerous and intimidating. Somehow, he still seemed ten times his size. Capable of harm, and a lot of it. "You didn't give Steve a choice on whether or not to help you. He had to baby you, he had to take care of you, and because of that, he died. And you couldn't save him. Because that's just the way you are— it's the way you've always been."

Shaun closed his eyes tightly, moving his arms up even more to start to cover his face as he ducked his head away and to the side. A defensive position, because that was all he could do, now. Try and hide and minimize the damage somehow. "You've always been pathetic, Shaun. Always. I tried  _so_  hard to give you a life like any other kid, and every time I did, you just couldn't do it. It wasn't my fault, it was yours. Everything is always your fault. Steve, that girl in the supermarket, the people you couldn't get to in the bus, and now even your own death— it's all your fault." He sounded disgusted.

"You're nothing. You've always been nothing, and that's why you're here.  _That's_  why you're here. Because you never should have left in the first place. There was nothing you could do out there. You lied to yourself when you thought you could be anything other than what you started out as in the first place." Shaun was shaking, just like his vision was. "Are you listening to me!?" his father yelled, and again, he cringed. This visceral reaction only served to make him angrier, though. Before Shaun could even look up to prepare himself, his father reached out to smack him across the face, like he had done that last night they were together. The memory of the pain was there, as if he could really feel it.

But his father wasn't finished. Before Shaun could recover from the shock of the first blow, he reached out and shoved him hard, sending him back into the wall with a hefty thud. He couldn't catch himself in time, and once he hit it, he was left to slip and crumple down to the floor. His eyes were wide, and his mind was fuzzing blank in panic. He started to try and push himself up, holding the side of his face that had been struck. Before he could, his father kicked out hard to catch him in the center of his stomach. It only worsened the suffocation he was feeling. Immediately, he curled up into a tight ball to try and protect himself against the blows. He squeezed his eyes shut and flinched down into his knees, because there wasn't anything else he could do.

"You're nothing! You've always been nothing! I've always hated you! Why couldn't you have died instead of Steve!? Everyone would have been so much better off! We would have been happier! Everything would have been better if you hadn't been my son!" Shaun curled even tighter, cringing even more. With one final kick, his father staggered backwards, his expression twisted in rage and anger. Shaun stayed where he was curled, refusing to come out, like a turtle trapped in his shell. His father's voice was a low growl. "You're pathetic," he spat. "You started out as nothing, and you'll  _always_ be nothing. That'll never change. And now you're dead."

Shaun stared down at his knees, rasping in uneven after uneven breath. He didn't move for a long while; he just stayed curled where he was. His expression was blank with shock. Fear was written across his face as well, like it always was when his father had hit him, or yelled at him, or talked down to him. It was second nature, and now it was back full-force, like it had never left in the first place. Old habits died hard, and this was something to show for that. He was shutting down, because shutting down was easier than listening to whatever abuse was thrown his way. Easier than  _taking_  the abuse that was thrown his way.

But eventually, after what felt like ages…

"No."

It was tiny, and not at all assured. His expression was still stark with fear— that didn't change. But the objection slipped out of his mouth anyway, nearly against his will. His father stopped immediately, and he glared down at Shaun in undisguised rage. His voice was a low growl when he demanded: "What was that?" In a tone clearly meant to suggest Shaun let whatever it was die before it could actually get out again. Shaun said nothing at first, trying to realize what he'd said in the first place, himself. His father took a step closer. "What did you say to me?"

Shaun blinked slowly, still staring at his knees. "…I…said no," he whispered. He looked up now, to see his father's enraged scowl. But there was something else, too. Shaun's eyes caught to the side, and he turned just slightly to see that someone else was standing in the room, now. It was far back in the other corner, but he was there all the same. And there was a wide and encouraging grin on Steve's face as he looked at his brother. An unbelievable amount of pride was there, to soften his gaze. He gave one steady, resolute nod. A silent will for him to keep going.

Shaun glanced back down at his knees for just a second or two more, before he looked up towards his father. Before he started to move to uncurl from his position. "I'm…not nothing. I'm a…surgical resident, at Saint Bonaventure hospital." His father growled and started to advance again. Shaun shut his eyes and flinched, but he kept pushing himself up to his feet. He kept speaking, despite the fear that was plaguing his every word, and making him nearly inaudible. "I'm…a good student. I've saved many lives. And I saved lives on the bus, too. Not all of them…but as many as I could."

His father's hands clenched at his sides. Like he was preparing another blow. "Shaun, you—" he stared to try and warn.

But Shaun wasn't finished. Just like he wasn't nothing.

"And I'm a good friend." He thought of driving with Lea in the car, of watching with patient exasperation as Claire and Jared sang along to a song for him. Of breaks spent laughing, of moments spent helping one another in the field. "I have…people who want to be my friend. People that care about me. And…would miss me. If I was gone. Who like me. People who are different from you. I didn't think I would find people like that, but I did. On my own."

"They'll be glad you're gone," he growled. "You're just competition to them."

"But I'm not," Shaun objected. Not angrily, or bitterly. Factually. He was focusing on the facts. That was what he did best. He couldn't do it before, when he was little. When he was little, he didn't know any better. Now, he did. "They care about me, and they like to be with me." He remembered all the times they spent eating lunch together, or breakfast. All the times that they'd comforted each other after a bad day, or helped a bad day get better before it could run its course. How many times they'd smiled at him or asked him to hang out outside the hospital. Willingly. Because they wanted to. "They care about me," he repeated. "I'm not nothing. Not to them."

He glared at him, daring him to continue. "And you think that means anything?" he growled.

Shaun struggled to keep hold of his resolve. "I think it means everything."

"It doesn't change anything," he rejected. "It doesn't change who you are."

Shaun weakened. He looked down at the ground. His eyes flickered over to Steve's; he was still met with his brother's encouraging smile. It was a little more pained now, as if he sensed his older brother's difficulty. But nevertheless, he kept the beam on his face. Shaun took a deep breath that shivered on its way down. "Not for you," he agreed softly, not breaking his stare away from Steve's. Steve nodded again, to nudge him along. Shaun's hands clasped tighter together. "But…you're not important to me," he stated plainly. "They are. And they know I'm more than that. I don't have to prove it to them. That's what's important to me."

His father reached out to grab tight hold of his chin and wrench his head around, like he had that last night Shaun had been home. Though Shaun didn't feel the painful tug, he remembered it. It was there anyway. His father's anger was mounting. "Listen to me," he snarled. "You might think you're something special because everyone took enough pity on you to let you get where you are now. But that's all it is: pity. You're still here. You still failed. You still weren't able to do what anyone else in your position could do, because you're still just as helpless as you were when you were here.  _That's_  why you're back— because you know that. You can try and say anything you want; nothing will change that. You thought you could do something— you thought you could  _be_  something. But you can't. You never could. You're still just a disappointment."

He jerked and shoved Shaun back. He stumbled, but at least this time, when he hit the wall, he kept standing. He winced and had to straighten, but he didn't fall. He had to take a moment to collect himself and breathe. Some part of him was still trembling in fear. But he didn't give way to it. He tried to make his voice harder. Surer. "I  _am_  something," he stated. "I'm a doctor."

And that was when it finally dawned on him.

That was when he knew what the answer was.

"That's why I'm here," he began, slowly. Picking his words with care, but knowing that they were the right ones, now. "I'm here…because I'm a doctor." He did look and meet his eyes now. And there was the tiniest sense of fright spurred by the look in his father's eyes. But he had this to hold onto, now. He wasn't planning on letting go. "I'm here because I'm a doctor. And I put the lives of others over my own. I helped other people instead of myself." His eyes slid over towards Steve. His brother was wilting more and more at this, but he stayed resolute. "But I don't regret it. If the bus crashed again, I would do the same thing." He turned back to his father and somehow, he managed to hold his head just the tiniest bit higher. "I became a surgeon by myself. Nobody…pitied me, I did all the work that was required. And I took an oath to help anyone who needs it. And I did that." He nodded once. Firmer, this time. "That's why I'm here," he declared. "Because I did my job as a doctor. I didn't fail. I succeeded."

His father opened his mouth, as though he wanted to say something. But for once, the tables were flipped. For once, Shaun was the one standing just a little bit taller. For once, his father was the one rendered mute and shocked— not for the same reasons Shaun had when he was younger, but regardless. It gave Shaun the strength to keep going. "You were never going to change your mind about me," he said, quieter now. "That's why I left. It wasn't my fault that Steve died. But when he did…I didn't have anyone…that believed in me anymore. I needed to leave. To find someone else that would."

He fell silent for a moment, frowning. He looked back where Steve was standing, and now his brother wasn't standing that alone. Glassman was standing there as well, and once Shaun turned, the older doctor's expression softened with unabashed pride and affection. Something that Shaun had never seen on his own father's face but had seen time and time again on his. The younger weakened into a tiny grin. Warmth blossomed in his chest, the way it used to whenever Steve would reach over and tousle his hair. "And I did," he announced. "I found someone. And I was happy. I  _am_  happy. That's what's important to me, too."

He turned back, but it was only to shake his head briefly. "They're all important to me." Claire and Jared and Lea and Melendez, even Morgan, and Alex. They were all important to him, and they were all there. He could feel it. "I'm going to get back to them," he promised. "If I can. But until then…I wanted to tell you that. I wanted to tell you that I'm more than you thought I was. And I'm more than you made me think I could be, too." He tilted his head to the side. "And I wanted to tell you you're not important to me. I was never important to you. I don't think it's fair to make it anything different."

His father was still silent. Shaun stared at him steadily. Quietly, but with conviction, he pressed: "I want you to leave."

He did a double-take. Clearly more than shocked.

Good.

"Now," Shaun defined, when he was still speechless. Leaving no room for objection, or argument.

It was past that.

The next time he blinked, that was all it took. His father was gone. Everyone was.

But time, the feeling of being alone was a welcoming one.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

"…and that's what's on the agenda for today," Melendez announced, looking up from the clipboard to look through the gaggle of residents in front of him. Morgan was listening attentively, like she always did, taking notes whenever she could. Park was simply an audience— any notes he took were always mental, but he never missed a single one. Claire and Jared, on the other hand…

Melendez sighed. He glanced at his watch and nodded to them. "You have fifteen minutes," he allowed. Claire straightened at once, and her eyes flew wide. She'd been absently playing with her hair before, and now her hand flew back down to her side. Jared had been glancing down the hall the entire time Melendez had been talking, but with the allowance, his head whipped back. Despite the fact that permission had been granted, they still hesitated, like they weren't sure. He gestured quickly, looking almost irritated, though they knew it wasn't the case. "Go on!" he snapped. "You only have fifteen minutes, don't waste any of them! Just get back here!"

They didn't need to be told another time. Claire was first to whirl around and take off— moving too fast and smacking into Jared on accident, nearly knocking him over. She righted herself and shot off to run down the hall. Jared didn't waste a single moment before he turned and rushed after. With the way the two were running, other people must have been wondering if there was a code going on. But they ignored the stares they got and just kept going. Bypassing the elevators, because they would take too long, and opting for the stairs instead.

They had the route memorized, by now. They raced up three flights of steps, not even breaking a sweat after the practice they'd had. By now, it was a breeze. They raced up the steps and burst out into the hallway, dodging past nurses and technicians that were trying to go about their business and tearing for Shaun's room. It took a few side-steps and a few rushed apologies, but they got there in less than two minutes. They still had thirteen left. Reaching the door, Claire stopped long enough to give a knock, just in case. Sure enough, when they poked their heads in, Glassman was there.

It was rare that he wasn't. Sometimes he would practically bring his entire office up here, just so he could be beside Shaun and work at the same time. Sometimes he would blow things off completely— it just depended. Or, blow it off as much as possible without the hospital crumbling down around them. Sometimes he ran from Shaun's room to his office for rushed meetings or paperwork. It was always different, but the sentiment of needing to be beside him stayed, no matter how much time passed.

And currently, the number was up to two and a half weeks.

Shaun never opened his eyes; he never woke up. He never so much as twitched. But still, they were faithful. Every day, Claire and Jared would run to his room whenever they could. Every break they had, it was straight to here. After every shift, they said goodbye. Sometimes they even came in early to say good morning, before they had to don their coats and go on without him. And Glassman was ever-present, when they could not be. Between the three of them, Shaun was never alone. He was cared for. He was talked to, on the off-chance he could hear them.

He was loved. Even if he didn't know.

Claire smiled, like she always did. "Good morning!" she chirped. Glassman looked up from a file he was holding in his hands. It seemed like today was a 'Move-The-Office-In-Here' kind of day. There were about a million papers practically everywhere. If Shaun was awake, he would be pouring over all of them with unbridled enthusiasm. But he was still unconscious, still hooked up to a ventilator. He looked pale and small, but Claire tried not to focus on that. She stayed optimistic, and upbeat. She didn't waste a single second before she went up to his bedside and cheered specifically: "Good morning, Shaun."

"You two are early," Glassman noted, sounding tired. She wondered if he went home last night, or if he stayed. He usually stayed. He looked between the two and cracked a small smile. It didn't quite reach his eyes. "The day just started. I would hope Melendez isn't already tired of the two of you."

"Oh, he most likely is," Jared reassured. "But that's not why we're up here."

"He gave us fifteen minutes," Claire declared. "So we came to bother Shaun."

Glassman snorted just a little bit under his breath. When his eyes flickered to Shaun, his smile faded a bit. He cleared his throat and looked back down at whatever papers he was holding in his hands. "Well good; he's probably annoyed by me at this point. He'd like a change in pace."

"No!" Claire objected. She looked at her friend and shot him a smile he wouldn't see. "Shaun loves your company, don't you, Shaun?" It was weird at first, to speak to him like this, knowing that there would be no reaction. It had been sad, too, the first couple of days. But slowly it had grown to be something completely natural. It was important.

Hearing was the very last sense to slip away in a patient. Studies had shown time and time again that speaking to a person who was in a coma did wonders for them, and even brought back rates of quicker awareness. And that people who had been in comas came back around to say that they had been aware of every little thing, they just weren't able to open their eyes and show it. Every hospital employee was taught that they should always speak to a patient as if they could respond. Once the hurdle was leapt over, it was automatic. "He'd be too polite to say anything else, I guess," she offered, looking back at Glassman with a small smirk.

Glassman returned the smile, but again, it was fast to drop.

She wilted and looked over at Jared. He coughed in the back of his throat and straightened. "How is he?" he prompted, which was a dangerous question to ask, really. "Any change?"

Unsurprisingly, Aaron shook his head. The two younger residents tried not to let their disappointment show too plainly. "No," he murmured. He kept his eyes down to the paper in his hands, but it was most likely to disguise whatever emotion might be bubbling up in response to the question. "He's the same. Nothing's different."

Claire tried to remain positive. "That means his injuries are still healing up nicely," she pointed out. She looked down at his left hand— the one that had been mangled and torn open by glass. Infection had been a real risk with such gaping wounds, but they were sealing closed very well. The stitches had been taken out only a few days ago. There was scarring across his palm, but other than that, it was perfect. His leg was a little bit more of a mess— that had quite a bit of scarring, and, at least right now, it was much more jagged and difficult to look at. His right arm was quite similar. But both of those had been much severer injuries. Time would help reduce the sight, they hoped.

Glassman gave a tiny nod. She knew it wasn't what he wanted. She knew he wanted more— he wanted Shaun to open his eyes and react and respond. To be him again. But it was an unspoken fact between them that this was all they were getting. It was all they'd been getting for nearly three weeks, and there was no sign to hint that they would be getting anything different any time soon. No. For now, this was all they had. So they had to work with it.

Silence existed for a long while. Until Claire's eyes caught on something on Shaun's bedside table. Something actually pretty huge— she was surprised she hadn't noticed it until this very moment. "Oh, geez!" she noted, and Glassman roused at her surprise. But when he followed her gaze, he was quick to look right back down, a frown creasing over his face. "Where'd those come from?" Claire asked, still regarding the large vase of flowers. It nearly took up the entire table. She'd been so focused on her friend, she'd turned a blind eye. But there were rainbow petals and a brightly-colored bow…she felt kind of stupid for bypassing it.

Glassman's voice was quieter, and stiffer. "It's from Pamela," he said, a little shortly.

Claire blinked. "Oh." The response was soft. Pamela— she was the woman that Shaun had saved. The woman who had nearly bled out from her leg. She could tell the flowers didn't impress Glassman whatsoever. She could kind of understand. But all the same, she tried to pass off a smile. "Well, that was sweet of her," she commented. Glassman said nothing, just continuing to look over his file. She cleared her throat in slight discomfort but grinned again when she looked down at Shaun. "Looks like you've got an admirer," she chirped. When he didn't react, as usual, she looked back down in front of her, at the blankets. "Don't let it get to your head too much," she sighed.

"Are you kidding?" Jared asked, moving so he could sit down by Shaun's side, on the mattress. He reached out and patted the top of his hand gently. "Shaun's the most self-absorbed person I've ever met. He always lets everything go to his head— I'm impressed he can even fit inside this building." Claire shot him a look that was only half-irritated. Mostly, it was just a smirk. Jared just shook his head mournfully. "No, he's way too obnoxious. It's a real tragedy."

"How unfortunate," she mused.

"Oh, yeah, he's worse than Morgan," he egged. Claire snorted and rolled her eyes. Glassman glanced up between the two of them, and then looked back at Shaun, weakening just a little bit when he did. "But don't worry, Shaun," Jared continued, patting his hand again. "We love you anyway." No sooner did the admission pass his lips, did his demeanor change. Claire's did too— she withered and looked down at her hands. Sorrow came more over her face, and Glassman wasn't even pretending to look at his work anymore. Jared looked guilty, at the shift in tone. All the same, he just cleared his throat. He patted Shaun's hand again. "So…just know we're still waiting. For you," he ended, a little lamely.

Shaun was still unresponsive. He didn't react at all.

They all expected this, but they all still deflated in disappointment anyway. Jared nodded once as he took his hand back. Silence existed for quite a long time, before he broke it with a glance towards the clock. "We should probably start heading back," he sighed. Claire drooped even more, but she knew better than to object. "Melendez isn't going to be happy if we're late."

"Yeah," she sighed. "You have a point."

They were both in agreement, but neither of them moved. They stayed put.

In the end, they might have been slightly late by the time they caught back up to the team.

Melendez didn't say a single word about it, though.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

_Oh, yeah, he's worse than Morgan._

"That's mean," Shaun commented dryly. He paused for a second, his eyes narrowing. Softer, he added: "And untrue. I'm very nice."

"You sure?" Steve snickered. Shaun turned away from the desk, to look over at him. His little brother was laying down in the bottom bunk, looking through a comic book. At Shaun's attention, he turned and flashed him a smile that was much too cheeky. "He seems awfully positive."

"He's just annoyed with me. He always teases me when he's annoyed."

This caused Steve to lower his book. When he spoke, after a beat of silence, his words were levelled, and they sounded a little different. "Well…why's he annoyed?"

Shaun turned back front. He studied the grain of the desk, like he always used to. "I don't know," he mumbled.

His little brother pushed himself up to sit. "I think you do," he argued.

Shaun was quiet for what had to be about twenty years. Eventually, he caved. "He's probably angry I haven't woken up yet."

"Why  _haven't_  you woken up yet?"

"I don't know," he repeated. Steve kept staring at him. He didn't like it. "Victims of significant trauma are often on an individual basis on how they heal and react. It tends to differ." Still, Steve was unimpressed. He knew it for a fact. "I'm…stuck, I can't wake up. I still have to wait."

"How do you know you're waiting for something?" he demanded. "What are you waiting for?"

Shaun didn't have an answer.

Steve frowned and got off the bed. He walked over to the desk Shaun was sitting at, where he would always read or write at when he was little. He leaned over on it, so he could catch his brother's eyes. He looked sad. Shaun didn't like that, either. "Whatever you're waiting for, I don't think it's going to come," he broached slowly. Shaun redirected his gaze to his hands. "Shaun, look at me," he pleaded. He couldn't deny him the request. "You need to leave," he pressed, once Shaun's eyes did flicker upwards. "I think you've been here long enough."

Silence. Then: "…I don't know how."

"Are you even trying?" Steve pressed.

"Yes."

His little brother wilted. He leaned back into his hips, his frown growing stronger. He appeared conflicted. "Shaun…" Shaun didn't like the way he sounded. "You have to wake up. You can't stay here like this. It's not good. It's not what's supposed to happen. Glassman, Jared, Claire— you need to get back to them. They're all waiting for you; you know that." His forehead creased. " _Don't_  you know that?"

"Yes," he murmured.

"Well…then, good," Steve blustered. "Then…you need to leave."

Shaun stayed at the desk. He didn't move.

"Tell me what's wrong," Steve asked, after a long period of nothing.

Shaun could see him. He could see Steve. He could see his same hair, his same smile, he could hear his same voice. It was like he was really there, just a few inches away. Tangible, and solid. His brother. Not a look-alike, not a memory. It was more than he'd had in ages. It was more than he'd had in forever. Ever since he lost Steve, he'd wanted something like this. He'd known it wasn't possible, of course. He never really considered it or lingered on the wish for too long, because he knew how ridiculous it was. But suddenly…here they were.

He said none of this out loud. But apparently, it didn't matter. Steve's eyes narrowed anyway. He stepped away from the desk completely, and the look on his face wasn't anything that Shaun wanted to actually look at. His voice was harder, too. Strained, but tense and almost angry at the same time. "No. You can't, Shaun," he said, and Shaun looked even more away, in clear dejection. "You can't!" he repeated. "You have to go back, Shaun— you have to go back to Glassman, and Claire, and Jar—"

"I know," Shaun rushed. He hunched his shoulders and crumbled a little bit. He looked back at Steve, and this time he did it with clear sorrow. Grief that had been stifled and ignored to the best of his ability for years and years. Steve's expression stayed hard, but he closed his mouth. Shaun winced as he pushed on. "I will." The two brothers just stared at one another. Before Shaun twisted back around. "But I can't right now. So…I want to stay here. With you."

Steve sagged, his eyebrows knitting in something close to pain. "Shaun…" he tried.

"Please." Shaun turned back to Steve. His brother was struggling to remain firm on this. But the hard light in his eyes was quickly dying. It couldn't stand up against the desperation currently in Shaun's. He was silent. "Please," Shaun repeated when he got nothing, begging now. Steve looked away. "Don't leave."  _Not again._  The words weren't spoken, but again, they didn't need to be. Steve let out a heavy sigh. When he looked back at his brother, it was with an expression that was clearly torn in two.

"Stay with me," Shaun implored.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

"'When he gave us our air rifles, Atticus wouldn't teach us to shoot. Uncle Jack instructed us in the rudiments thereof; he said Atticus wasn't interested in guns.'" The room was dimly-lit. There was no sunlight coming through the window— the sun had long since set. Glassman's voice was one of three sounds. The others being Shaun's heart monitor, and his ventilator. The young doctor had still not progressed, despite the fact that today marked three weeks since the crash. He was still asleep. Still pale, still ashen, still numb. The silence was only growing more and more oppressive with each passing day. The efforts of conversation that were solely one-sided just made it all worse. This was the next best, easiest thing to do.

"'Atticus said to Jem one day, 'I'd rather you shot at tin cans in the back yard, but I know you'll go after birds. Shoot all the bluejays you want, if you can hit 'em, but remember it's a sin to kill a mockingbird.'" Glassman paused for a long moment, staring blankly at the pages, like he'd forgotten how to read. His eyes flickered over to Shaun, and they flashed harsh with pain. It was a considerable stretch of time before he inhaled sharply and picked it up again. "'That's the only time I ever heard Atticus say it was a sin to do something, and I asked Miss Maudie about it.'" He had to stop and cough. He shifted in his chair and breathed out slowly. He reached up and rubbed at his forehead.

It was almost a full minute before he could read on. "'Your father is right,' she said.'" He coughed again, but it wasn't any use. His voice was choking up, and only getting tighter and more strained when he tried to speak regardless. "'Mockingbirds don't do one thing but make music for us to enjoy.'" The text was blurring in front of him. The ink smeared, into intelligible shadows that made no sense. He looked at Shaun again, and the tears only welled faster. His next breath in was more like a gasp. He grimaced and shook his head and moved one hand, so he could reach down and hold to Shaun's. His chest felt like someone was carving into it with a dull knife.

"'They don't eat up people's gardens, don't nest in corncribs, they don't do one thing but sing their hearts out for us.'" The more he read, the more his voice crumbled. By the last few words, it was nothing more than pieces. He grimaced hard and ducked his head low to his chest. He had to stop and try to stand up against the waves of agonizing grief that slammed against him. He put down the book, and just went to hold to Shaun with both hands now. He looked at the young man, choking back a swallow and trying to see properly through his tears. To see the person he had tried to shelter, and protect for so long.

His lips trembled more and more, until he couldn't fight it anymore. Until his shoulders started to shake, and sobs couldn't be held back or stifled any longer. He sniffed and reached out, brushing aside Shaun's bangs, and fixing them the way he liked them. Wishing he would open his eyes. Wishing he would be okay. Wishing that they didn't have to do this anymore. Wishing that this entire nightmare would end. The fact that it was all useless helped to tip him over the edge.

He continued to cry over Shaun. Over someone who may as well be his son.

He shook his head, feeling like he was coming apart at the seams.

"That's why it's a sin to kill a mockingbird," he finished in a croak.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

"I'm proud of you."

"You are?"

"Of course. My brother's this awesome, superhero surgeon. It's insane."

Shaun grinned. He swelled with happiness and pride. "I've saved a lot of lives," he announced softly. "I've made sure a lot of people could keep living…like you didn't get to." His face fell a little with this admission. He didn't have to look to see Steve's face; he could feel his sadness like it was in the air. Palpable, and real. Shaun contemplated for quite a while. Before he said quietly: "There was a boy that looked like you. His name was Evan. He had cancer. I tried to save him too…but I couldn't."

Steve hummed. "Must be fate," he remarked.

"I don't believe in fate," Shaun returned.

"You don't think everything happens for a reason?"

"It can't. Not at all the time." Shaun's eyes flashed in pain. "Sometimes bad things just happen."

"Sometimes that's not the easiest thing to think, though. Sometimes believing in fate is better."

"Better isn't always easier."

"I guess you're right."

They were laying down on the ground, staring up towards the ceiling. They used to do this a lot when they were younger. Lay here and talk, or just linger in comfortable silence. Whatever was needed the most, or preferred the most, they would do. But they would do it together. Just like they were now. A smile traced over Steve's face. "'Course you're right," he continued. "You were always the smart one. You still are. Can you see me being a doctor, or a surgeon? Everyone would die." He giggled, and Shaun couldn't hide his smile, either. But mostly, he was just smiling because he could hear his brother's laugh again. "I'd be fired the second I walked inside. I'd be nowhere near as good as you."

This caused Shaun's smile to fade. His stare grew much more morose. "You don't know," he murmured, and Steve's own grin fled. "You could have been anything…"

This brought silence. Maybe it was because Steve just didn't know what to say. Maybe it was because Shaun didn't want to hear it. Whatever the reason, the silence stayed, fixed like glue. Like a seal they couldn't shake. There was no telling how long it truly went on.

_You need to come back to me._

Shaun sat up. He looked towards the direction the voice had come from. It was like an echo, from somewhere miles away. Steve pushed himself up as well. He was frowning again. He looked to his older brother, and that light was back in his eyes. Though when Shaun looked back at him, and their gazes met, the tiniest bit of hesitation seemed to break it. All the same… "You should go."

Shaun's face fell. He didn't want to.

"You have to," Steve pressed, as if Shaun had said this aloud. Or maybe he actually had. "You have to go, Shaun." He smiled, kindly, but sadly. His voice was tinier when he pushed: "You can't stay here; you don't belong here. You belong out there, with them. You need to wake up, so you can keep being the smart one, where people need it." Shaun was shaking his head. Steve wouldn't have it. "Go." His voice was even weaker. He wasn't even trying to smile anymore. There was a finality this time that hadn't been there before. And with that finality was deep, deep sorrow. "You have to."

"I don't want to leave you," he managed.

Steve closed his eyes in a tiny wince. But he tried to steel himself when he opened them again. "You've been here long enough, Shaun. It's time to wake up. It's time to get back."

Shaun searched his face, like he was trying to commit every single part of it to memory. As if that wasn't what this already was in the first place: a fabricated sort of memory. It wasn't his brother, but it was the closest thing he had, and the thought of leaving him behind and never seeing him again was enough to make him want to scream. In contrast, he could barely hear himself speak, when he murmured: "I love you."

Something he hadn't told him very often when they were little. Steve would tell him from time to time, but usually he'd just smiled in response. The sentiment had been clear, in the grin, but still, Shaun was quick to spit it out now. It was his last chance to. So it was the first thing that came to mind to say. And with it, Steve melted, and though his smile grew wider, it also grew in sadness. He looked at Shaun for a moment or two, like he was doing the same thing his brother was in trying to remember each detail. "I love you too," he replied thickly. "And I'm proud of you," he added. "I'm so proud of you. No matter what. You remember that. Or else I'm going to be mad."

Shaun nodded. And before he even really knew himself what he was doing, his arms went out at his sides and he reached out to wrap them tightly around his brother. Steve immediately did the same, and clung tight, wrapping his smaller arms up around his neck. Shaun closed his eyes, struggling to feel just the tiniest sense of anything from the contact. Searching for pressure that he usually did not want, reaching for that feeling of proximity he usually despised. He wanted it all, now. Every little bit of it. He wanted to feel it. He tried as hard as he could.

But he still couldn't feel anything.

Until he could.

Until he could feel something different…something underneath him. Not ground, but soft…something…soft like…a…like a…

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

Glassman had to go back home. He hadn't been home in three days, and it was beginning to show. He was out of fresh clothes, and there was only so much hospital showers could really do for you. He didn't want to leave— he didn't ever want to leave. But he was stiff from sitting in the chair for days on end, and practically every staff member was snapping at him to get some rest in an actual bed before he got so stiff he couldn't move anymore. He would get a couple hours. That was all he was going to allow himself. A shower, a new stash of clothes, a couple hours sleep in his own bed, should he be able to manage that, and then right back here with Shaun.

This was his routine…soon it would have been going on like this for a month.

He gathered his things, his heart heavier than any of his bags, and then he stood in his usual hesitation at Shaun's bedside. He looked down at him with enough sorrow to drown in. And he certainly felt as though he was drowning in it. He looked at Shaun's skinnier frame, his paler skin. Glassman helped take care of him— he'd offered to shave his face today so that the PCA did not have to. Despite their polite refusal, he didn't really take no for an answer. He wanted to. He'd been unable to help Shaun before this— to help keep him out of harm's way. These little things were the least he could do.

One would figure after a month of this, you would become desensitized.

But for Glassman, the pain only layered on top of itself. What had started out as a painful ache in his chest was now a searing hole. And as he looked down at Shaun, his eyes still welled with tears, even though by this point he should be dry of them. He set down one of his bags and reached out to brush Shaun's hair aside again. A habit he couldn't shake. There was a lump in his throat that made it difficult to talk. But he knew that it was important he did. "I'll be back," he promised, his voice hitching just a bit when he knew the swear would fall on deaf ears. "I have to…run home, but I'll be right back for you," he pledged.

Shaun was silent. He always was.

Glassman nodded a jerking kind of nod. He glanced down at the blankets for some time, before he took in a breath and closed his eyes. He reached up to wipe at them before tears could fall, because he knew they would. He sighed a little more airily. "I'm sorry." He apologized every night. That was routine, too. Every night he did, and yet it still wasn't enough. He dropped his arm and looked at Shaun hopelessly. At his ventilator and monitors and injuries. "I'm so sorry," he gasped. "This never should have happened, I should have…" There were too many things to be able to finish. He just let it die. There was no point.

Instead he tried to regather himself. To calm down and reel it all back in. "But…I'll make it up to you," he promised. "I'll make it up to you if—  _when_  you wake up. I promise you that." His lips quivered. He tucked Shaun's hair behind his ear, making sure it would stay. That it wouldn't fall back while he was gone, because he knew Shaun didn't like it that way. "You just…" He grimaced. He tried to start over. "You need to come back to me," he pleaded in a choke. The words barely managed to get out. "You just need to come back to me, Shaun, please," he begged. The dam was breaking again, and he was doing a horrible job of keeping himself in line. But did it really matter, at this point?

He stood like that for as long as his hesitation would allow. Before he had the chance to realize he was taking too long and force himself to leave. Before that came, he just stayed where he was. Running through Shaun's hair, reaching down to hold his hand and linger there. Anything he could do, he would. Any touch that could elicit a response. Anything at all. He wanted to see his eyes again, he wanted to hear him talk. He wanted to see him laugh and smile, and he wanted to stop hearing their last phone conversation on repeat in the back of his mind.

He wanted Shaun back.

Eventually, he sighed. His shoulders loosened, and exhaustion was left to crowd his features. He reached back through Shaun's hair one last time, letting his hand linger on the side of his face gently after he did. He knew he had to leave. "Okay," he said, and very reluctantly, he withdrew. He turned and grabbed his bag up again and shifted his load, so he could carry it all. "I'll be right back," he repeated. "Annarose said she would…keep an eye on you while I was gone." The fact his nurse was so doting was practically the only reason he ever left for more than five seconds at a time. It was mostly pity that spurred her loving and frequent trips into Shaun's room. But he was grateful for it anyway. He would take what he could get.

Shaun did nothing.

Glassman anticipated it. Though disappointment was raw on his face, like an open wound, he just stepped away. "Goodbye, Shaun," he murmured sorrowfully. "I won't be long at all." And he left the room. Regretting about a million separate things. He knew the halls of Saint Bonaventure well, but by now he knew these halls enough to walk without even thinking. It was all muscle memory. However, this served to work against him. He made it all the way down to the elevators before he realized he'd left his phone on Shaun's bedside table. In this moment, the simple mistake was enough to make him want to tear his hair out.

He turned and walked back. Out of habit, he knocked on the door on the way in, so he wouldn't intrude. He crossed the threshold and was already explaining himself, like Shaun was fit to grumble about how he was ruining his night by going in and out. "I left my phone…" he sighed airily, rubbing at his forehead. "I'd lose my head if it wasn't attached…I can't think straight anymore." He was just talking to himself at this point. He grabbed his phone and checked it for messages. He started to turn. "Right, like I'm going to call  _you_ back," he was grumbling, scrolling down through the missed…well, everything. He made his way back for the door. "You'll all forgive me if I feel like I have something better to worry about instead of—"

He froze. His eyes had instinctually been drawn to the side as he walked, for one last glance back towards the bed. And the moment they landed home, they flew to be about ten times as wide as they usually were. His voice was strangled into absolutely nothing— he could hardly breathe in the first place. His hand went lax, and his phone fell with a loud clatter to the ground. But he didn't even bat at an eye at it, or even wonder if the screen was alright. He just stared in complete shock, tears quickly blurring his vision. Hardly even daring believe what he saw.

Shaun's eyes were open.


End file.
